Number 821
by AmeliaFaulks
Summary: 'And the order of destiny, so troubling to our thoughts, is not always found written in things past.'
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** hello again. This story takes its influences and liberties from across the board; there are ideas, themes, flights of fancy cherry-picked from the movies, the DCAU, SV and, of course, the comics. It's all in there. It's a little pulpy and a little dark, and it was a lot of fun to write. I hope you enjoy it too. This is chapter one of five.

**Disclaimer: **I hereby disclaim any ownership of the characters, all related rights and, sadly, the now defunct red underpants.

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><p><strong>Number 821<strong>

**-Chapter One-**

**World Eight-two-one. The present day. **

Only three months separated them, so responsibility was shared. The girl was in charge of the album and the camera. Although the camera was safe, wrapped and cushioned and stowed away in the canvas bag slung over her shoulder, and she could feel its weight pulling there, she patted at it every few minutes anyway and was reassured each time to re-find its precious bulk through the fabric.

The boy was in charge of their props, the slip of paper, and their ride home. With the tablets under one arm he held up the slip of paper so they could both check the address again. "I guess this is the place?"

They were gazing across the street at a four-story high brownstone. With its carved window lintels and deep sills and an ornate balustrade running flat along the roofline, it was an elegant-looking building, well-kept and in keeping with this part of the city. Behind them, behind a set of cast iron railings and a line of trees, was a small square where local residents could walk and lounge on the grass and enjoy the weather. They could hear the laughter and hoot of children running and playing in there now.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. Across the street, a little further down the block, a young woman with headphones was walking a dog. The other way, a coffee shop had tables and chairs outside. People were sat out on the sun-dappled sidewalk reading papers and sipping from wide white cups.

To the boy, it all looked the same. If it was different, the differences were slim. She had told them many times it could be like that. If calculations were correct, if everything had gone right- and there was no reason to believe it hadn't- there was no reason to suspect they were not exactly where they were supposed to be. Still, they looked and peered, and neither felt sure. A wisp of long brown hair escaped from behind her ear and the girl, the boy's cousin, tucked it back, "I guess so."

The boy was frowning, dark eyes darting left and right. "It's going to look weird if we wait out here any longer."

The girl nodded. "Let's do this."

They climbed the wide shaded steps of the stoop and tried the door. It was heavy but it opened into the cool and quiet of a small checkerboard-floored lobby. Above them three flights of stairs wound round in a spiral of concentric squares. One wall of the lobby was taken up by a cork bulletin board and the dark wooden shelves of a set of mailbox compartments. Each opening was labeled with a thin strip of punched tape, names and door numbers raised and embossed in white. A rising prickle of panic was dealt with when, for a few seconds, they couldn't, but then did, find the name. The compartment was empty, there was no mail, but it was confirmation enough, at this delicate stage, to renew their confidence.

The single brass door of an old-fashioned elevator was set into a shaft beside the stairwell. Wordlessly they punched the button and stepped inside. A little out of practice the girl remembered to pull the cage across then turned to find the boy sizing up the control panel. "You just-"

He blustered, "I know," before thumbing the correct arrow.

In the confined space of the car the boy handed the girl one of the two touchtablets. Then they arrived at the top floor. The door slid across and they stepped out and found themselves at one end of a narrow landing. Floorboards creaked as they walked. About halfway along there was a door. The number on the door matched the number on the paper. They were here. They had done it. A silent look of triumph and of support passed between them, the girl patted at the camera and the boy reached out and pressed the buzzer.

They heard the buzzer sound inside and waited. And there was nothing. He pressed it again, and they waited. And nothing.

Inwardly, the boy was despairing. But the girl was turning her head in the silence, and listening. The boy could hear only a distant hum of air-conditioning but the girl said, "There's definitely someone there."

"Maybe they're asleep?" Now they both concentrated. The boy's brown eyes stared straight ahead, at the door. He whispered, "Wait. Someone's coming." In preparation they held up the touchtablets in both hands.

On the other side a catch was lifted and then the door opened. "Yes?"

The man standing in the doorway with the expectant expression was small-shouldered and a little hunched. He had a neat side-parting of wiry gray hair, gray eyebrows, and quick green eyes. Over a button-up he was wearing a pale green sweater vest and, at the collar, a dark red bowtie. He looked dapper. As far as they could tell, he looked identical.

The girl bounced on her feet, "Good afternoon, sir. We hope we haven't disturbed you." She bobbed her tablet. "We're students from the local high school."

The green eyes narrowed.

The boy said, "We're researching for a project on old media. _Classic_ media," he corrected, rubbing at the outside of his arm where he'd just been elbowed. "We were wondering if we could ask you some questions?"

The girl read the man's hesitation. "Just a few? We'll be very quick. No time at all." There was a matching brandishing of the tablets in their hands, followed by two toothy smiles.

"For school?"

Two open faces nodded and that seemed to tip the scale. The man backed up, watching his slippered feet, grumbling, "Classic media. Even worse. Makes it sound as though we used hieroglyphs on papyrus for goodness sake's," he stepped aside to open the door wider and unfurled a slow-burning grin, "when everyone knows we made it all the way to quills and scrolls. School project, huh?"

"Yes sir," they said together.

It made him stop and consider them again, these two kids on his doorstep with their dark looks and brightness and shining eyes. "Do I know you two?" Cheeks were puffed and blown out while the man squinted, as if trying to place them. "Not been around here selling cookies?"

A simultaneous blink, and a chimed, definitive, "No."

He invited them into the apartment, shuffling after them with an instruction to help themselves to a seat. The boy and girl walked through past the entrance to a kitchen and straight into the open space of a living room. There was a couch and an armchair and an easy chair that had seen better days with a pair of reading glasses hanging over one arm. The man was knocking around in the kitchen and he called to them to forgive the mess, but the place wasn't messy. At the foot of the easy chair a pile of books was stacked rather than filed away and a hard copy of the morning's paper and all its sections was strewn over the coffee table but the room had the straightforward homeliness and tidiness of a widower.

They perched themselves next to each other on the couch where the girl nestled the canvas bag between her shoes. At once, their attention was taken by a collection of photographs that spanned the wall opposite. An arresting set of framed images, some shot in black and white, some in color, were arranged in chronological order. The boy and girl knew this, because the boy and girl recognized the pictures. They were some of the most famous pictures in the world. The mantelpiece below was lined with more photographs, smaller photographs, in handmade frames and thick silver frames and frames shaped like hearts, of little kids and weddings and people in graduation caps. Some of these images were newer because the boy and girl could see where you flicked the switch to activate the hologram.

On a tray that rattled in time with his limp, the man carried in a small stainless steel coffee pot and three cups on saucers. "I hope creamer is okay? I wasn't expecting company." He set the tray down on the table and straightened and saw where they were looking.

The girl said, "Your family, sir?"

He beamed at the mantelpiece, "Four grandkids at last count. Eldest probably a shade younger than your age, I'd say."

The boy had seen one photograph, of some kind of street parade, his eyes scrunched to read a banner being held up by the crowd. He pointed, "Lookit, the Monarchs won, here!" He gave an unguarded, delighted, "Cool."

A little late, he became aware of his cousin's wide-eyed death glare.

But the man's concentration was elsewhere. "That's a nice watch you got there, son. Nifty."

The boy glanced up and said thank you and tried not to make a show of pulling his sweater sleeve further down his wrist.

When the girl started, "Oh," they both followed her gaze.

The man smiled. Almost obscured amongst the mantelpiece pictures, there was another, larger, framed black and white print. He said, "That's my other family." Fondness left his tone, was replaced by something more bittersweet, "The last time we were together." He hitched his trousers at the knee and gripped the end of each armrest to lower himself into the easy chair. On an exhale, he said, "Now there's a tale for your project."

The boy and girl swapped glances and the outcome was that the boy looked pained. This time no attempt was made to disguise the eye contact and the man watched the exchange with interest.

"Actually," the girl admitted, "that's kind of why we're here today."

"I see." The man didn't seem angry. More contented, or even amused, that his suspicions, however nebulous, had been confirmed.

"We wanted to ask you a few questions."

"What is it that you want to know?" the man asked the girl, suddenly not his seventy-six years anymore. His eyes flicked, sharp and keen, between his young guests.

"Everything." A further glance from the girl to the boy suggested that she was perhaps not towing the party line. "The full story."

The boy checked his nifty watch. It was made out of metal and little lights on it flashed to no discernible pattern. But he said, "The abridged version." And another pointed stare.

They could see that the man was not sure. He took his time. Picked up the glasses from the armrest, put them on. Leaned forward and poured some coffee, lifted his saucer and cup, settled back. When he looked up again, he looked at them both, good and long, into their eyes.

If he was satisfied, he didn't say. He began, "It's a story with a lot of mystery." He reached for a spoon, stirred his coffee. "Mystique. It's almost a fairy tale, now. Some folks don't like that. Find it hard to accept, still." He stopped, sounded faraway and wistful, "It always made my wife nervous." His spoon tapped against the rim of the cup, making a thin sound, bringing him back. "May I ask what your interest is?" The eyes twinkled mischief- "Besides school."

The girl licked her lips and swallowed. "It's a family matter for us, too."

"How much do you know?"

"Bits and pieces."

"The stuff everyone knows," the boy added, and the girl clarified, "The end more than the beginning."

"In that case, I guess I should begin at the beginning?"

The man raised the coffee cup a fraction off the saucer but made no further move to take a drink. The girl and the boy watched him.

"It was a long time ago now, of course. When I was a young man. It was a strange time, a special time. I don't think anyone realized how special." He swirled the cup, his eyes following the movement. "Time allows you to reflect and appreciate your life in a way you don't, you can't, while you're living it." The man looked up. "It's funny. They never did then, but now, they call it 'the Golden age.'"

...

**Fifty Years Before.**

He was sat back, his weight leaned on one elbow, flashing that smile, holding court. Relaxed, confident, in complete control. The world's favorite son, the nation's sweetheart, the prince of Metropolis with the city illuminated behind him.

She was waiting, looking on from the couch he kept against the back wall of his office. Long legs crossed in front of her, she straightened the hem of her dress on her knee and pivoted her foot on the impossibly high stiletto heel of a black skintight boot. It was so easy to watch him when he was like this, he was so _watchable_. Thick hair pushed back off his face, the shadows of his jaw darkened by day-old stubble. His voice, rich and full of authority, sometimes commanding, sometimes wry- right now low, and broken by a chuckle. In his well-cut suit and shirt, and tie, stylishly and raffishly loosened at the collar, even she had to admit it. He was sexy.

He began to wind up the meeting. She could hear the voices of the others, but she couldn't see them- only the back of three large flatscreen monitors arranged in front of him a little like a vanity-table mirror. Linked by satellite, conversation was exchanged with the kind of light, good-natured bonhomie of a bunch of old friends rather than hard-faced delegates. The remarkable thing was that it wasn't remarkable.

A heavily-accented voice from one screen said, _"We're all looking forward to Sydney, Mr Kent. We'll see you all there."_

A series of dismembered goodnights followed in a jumble of cross talk as respective representatives and officials all troubled to bid goodbye to each other in the appropriate language. Likewise, she watched as, in turn, deliberately, he addressed each screen, "Thank you, Senator. We'll catch a game next time I'm in DC," he put his hands together, "Zai jian. Your Excellencies? No gare wa i lawa." From the final screen, from the minister from Mali, there was a cheery, and filthy, 'Bonsoir, mon petit chou!' He grinned. Clearly used to it, like a gentleman, he dipped his head and replied, "Bonsoir, Vivienne."

He pressed a button on the desk and the screens automatically folded shut. Now that he could see her properly, he swiveled and gazed over across the office at her with his full attention.

She was resting her head on her hand. She bounced the foot of her crossed leg. "Now say it in Amazonian and I'll be really impressed."

He smiled again, keyed another button and leaned to that corner of his desk; "Miss Manguel, are the project drafts ready? I'll sign them off now."

"_I'll bring them in right away, Mr Kent."_

From Diana's left, a young woman entered the office. Diana tracked her progress across the room to where she went to stand by his side and hand over a thick file of clipped-together papers. While Miss Manguel reminded him that although HQ would liaise with the Australasian offices on the day he better program his cell to keep him on schedule for Hong Kong, Diana noticed the way the other woman's eyes lingered on his face. Well, she thought, she was only human.

He said thank you and with a polite nod both at him and then at Diana the woman turned to leave. All coiffured updo and business chic, the woman was beautiful in her way and when she walked out of the office it was with the suggestion of a sashay.

Diana looked back. He, of course, was oblivious and already busy, leafing through the papers, reading them as he was leafing, signing them intermittently at the bottom. He licked the tip of his thumb when the pages stuck. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I want to ask a favor."

"Same here!"

Diana lifted her thumbs from where her hands were folded on her lap. "You go first."

"I need a plus one."

Surprised, she brightened at the request. "For what?"

He engaged her eyes. "I don't want to tell you."

Amused, she gazed back. "Why not?"

"I think that if I tell you, you'll say no." The corners of his eyes creased. "Can it be a surprise?"

She gave a simple, stonewalled, "No."

His head quirked in a tiny gesture suggesting her answer was nothing less than expected. "I've been invited to attend a coronation ceremony."

"May I ask for whom?"

"Princess Layla Hamid is going to be crowned queen of her clan and de facto head of the Beni Ghamid tribe."

At the unasked question, he rolled his hand in the air, "A small sub-tribe of Rashaida lineage, based in the north near the Bi'r Hammah region of the Sinai."

There was an appreciative nod and pulling of Diana's lips. "Welcome to the sisterhood."

"I've been invited over there as a guest of honor, and for reasons of diplomacy I don't think I can get out of it."

Diana was vaguely offended. She upbraided him, "It sounds like an auspicious occasion."

He picked up an opened envelope and an unfolded piece of paper to show her, "It's in the desert, I don't know anyone that's going to be there, and the ceremony is nine hours long." He gazed at her, levelly, "Straight."

"_Nine_ hours?"

He shrugged, "They have a lot of stuff to get through." He frowned, reading down the invite, "for an inaugural non-denominational tribal rite of passage, it seems surprisingly liturgical. Then there's the post-ceremony," one hand flapped, "festivities."

"When is it?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Diana's face pinched, "Watchtower." As unconvincing as it was unhelpful, she added, "Maybe if I'd had some advance notice?"

He had a resigned air, "I was going to go solo. Then the order of service came through." His expression turned genuinely concerned as he held up the invitation, "What am I going to do for nine hours?"

"Try your best to resist cramp, apparently."

"I thought it would be nice to have someone there with me." His head swayed, "Moral support or something."

She was not biting. She beamed, "What you need is a date."

He didn't bite either. In the same tone, he told her, "What I need is a stooge." Ignoring the familiar chewed up look of exasperation she was sending him, he continued, "Anyway. What's your thing?"

She refolded her hands over her knee. "I was in the neighborhood. I wanted some help."

When he looked, she said, "You know it's Bruce's birthday coming up. I thought I'd ask your advice."

He went back to reading his paperwork. "What to get the man who doesn't want anything?"

"Exactly."

"What Bruce would really like off you," he met her eyes, "I don't think they sell in stores."

She answered the smirk with a smirk.

"You know." He unclipped and shuffled the file back together to make it neat. "Your flimsy pretexts aren't usually so paper-thin."

On the couch she straightened and shifted. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

He pressed the button on the desk and leaned again, "Miss Manguel, I'm done with the drafts, thank you."

Miss Manguel came in right away. He was up from the desk to meet her. He flattened his tie and pointed the nib of his pen at Diana. "You're checking up on me." Again, Miss Manguel left the room.

"I'm not checking up. I'm checking _in_. As a courtesy. It just so happens that Bruce and I are in the area..." Diana nodded a few times, "Your charming city."

"Today. Of all days." He twitched his bottom lip, "It just so happens-"

She chose to skate over the skepticism of his tone. "Yes."

He held her with his eyes. "I'm fine."

"You look a little tired."

He went back to his desk. "Thanks."

"Why don't you take Miss Manguel as your plus one?"

Where she was light, his expression and tone darkened. "Miss Manguel is a professional doing important work for this organization-"

Diana simply shrugged, "Make her day. Make her year."

"- and I have no desire to belittle that."

"Doesn't mean she doesn't have a little crush."

He was annoyed, and with the rising strain in his voice, it showed, "They all have a little crush, Diana. The whole world has a little crush." He lifted his arms, gesturing to the office, and to everything beyond. "That's how this works."

He kept it covered so well, Diana thought, with his manners and warmth and charisma and success. But he had developed a clarity of thought, a detachment, a pragmatic streak that was honed and cold and sharp-edged; that's what her absence had done to him.

She stood. "Come on. I'm under orders. I'm taking you to dinner."

"I have another appointment."

"Now?" Diana checked her watch. It was after nine.

"Yes."

"Cancel- it's a new Cantonese fusion place." She picked up her coat, "It's supposed to be amazing. Bruce pulled strings to get a table."

He was busy at his desk, packing his briefcase, "What'd he do? Buy it?"

She nodded, "Of course."

He smiled, as if it figured. "Sounds great. But I can't. I'm sorry." And he sounded sincere.

"The appointment's that important?"

He considered it. He closed the case, locked it with his thumbs, "Yes."

She smiled but she couldn't stifle the note of frustration, "It's so late."

Unbothered, he collected his coat from the stand in the corner behind him.

Diana looked away, hesitating and clenching her jaw. She did not fully trust her instincts, which was not like her. When she looked back she said, "She won't mind, Kal-El."

It was almost imperceptible. The hardening in those clear blue eyes. But she saw it there. "Maybe next time."

He made sure she could see her self out, asked her to give Bruce his best, and, in a rush and blast of cold air, he was gone, out of the window.

...

He walked between wrought iron railings and neat privet hedgerows, his path paved and flanked by spotlit angels and thoughtful saints. The cemetery was the oldest in the city, and the most handsome, Clark was sure. Full of neo-Gothic statues and columned pediments and soft white stonework that was beautiful in the moonlight. The odd car horn could be heard in the distance, the occasional Doppler-effected siren, but it was a quiet place, a settled place, as if noise itself was polite enough not to impinge too much here.

He found his spot and sat down. Because of tomorrow there was a motley assortment of bouquets and new wreaths. From the bench he read some of the cards. They were from old colleagues and friends. In the corner of one there was an MPD badge. Another card bore the logo of the department of corrections. It was attached to a spray of pale lilies bound with tight swirls of ribbon and signed only, _Lucio_. Don Lucio; he remembered, every year. Clark had to smile at that. Even as she was putting mob bosses in jail, she was charming them.

He would've chatted, updated her about work, the weather, the Planet's front page, like usual. The mundanities that filled up a day. But it was too private a thing. Too close and too intimate when he was not alone. Long before the echo of footsteps, Clark heard the other man's approach.

He came to sit down by him and Clark said, "Hey Jimmy."

"Hey Clark."

Clark made room on the bench while the other man bent to lay a small posy of flowers. He took his seat and they shook hands and Jimmy upturned his collar. "Been a while."

...

By nature she was not an effusive woman, or prone to exaggeration. So at times like these, he understood it was best to let her get it out.

The electric violets and neon blues, and the black lattice panels and shoji screens of the decor seemed to match her mood. With a table right up against a window and a view overlooking the street, they were the only two diners in the restaurant.

Diana stabbed at her noodles with her chopsticks. "I was there for a half hour, forty minutes, at most. And I sat back and watched him chair a board meeting about that new nu-energy initiative he's been all over the papers with, seal a deal with Beijing ensuring tax exemptions for aid organizations, video-conference with three other governments about some eco summit the Australians are hosting _and_ sign off on the paperwork that was drawn up in the meantime from the first board meeting." Her indicting tone and the imploring look she was now giving him strongly indicated that it would not only be right but prudent to share in her worry.

"You know Clark. He could charm the pants off Helga, my ex-KGB gym masseuse," Bruce lifted his shoulders like it was hardly news, "and he works fast."

The chopsticks balanced idly in her hand where it rested by her bowl. "I don't think he ever lets up."

"No, I don't think he does."

She sighed at Bruce's lack of concern, "Is it healthy, though?"

He looked at her. "I'm not sure I can offer anything useful in a discussion about healthy outlets for grief."

A smile won out. She said no, she guessed not.

Bruce tasted a sip of his Cos d'Estournel, the '88 vintage. "You said he seemed okay?"

"He did. He does. He seemed perfectly fine." She raised the rim of her own wine glass to her lips, "That's what worries me."

"It's Clark, Diana. It's his way. He's always been like this."

She said nothing but it was clear by her expression that she did not totally agree. Bruce responded, "He just channels his energies in a different way now." Her lips were still pursed. He offered, "Whether it's healthy for him or not, you can't say he's not constructive."

As if that was the crucial thing she bobbed her head mutely and snipped, "Oh, well, I would never accuse him of that."

"We have a robust global economy. Carbon emissions that are flatlining. He's basically single-handedly achieved world peace."

"So what's next on the list?"

"You mean when his work here is done? Leave the place altogether. Take off for the stars." Bruce reached for his drink.

"I'm serious."

He set the wine glass back down. "So am I."

She released a sigh. "I'm just saying. The last person he ever considers is himself." Her bottom lip rolled back and she touched it with her teeth. Almost to herself she said, "I don't think he thinks about the future."

"And _I'm _just saying. I don't think he thinks of anything _else_. Look at the legacy he's creating. It'll go down the generations. There couldn't be a more impressive tribute."

A heavily bangled fist disturbed the table settings, "It's not right, Bruce. His legacy shouldn't be something you can measure on GDP charts." She threw a dismissive hand, "Shmoozing foreign ambassadors to make nice with each other. It should be a family, a dynasty- that's what should go down the generations."

"A couple of kids and leaving them great-uncle Jessop's wristwatch?" Bruce's look was black. "That's for ordinary people. That's not how it works for people like us."

She was unimpressed. "I don't believe that. And I don't think you do, either."

They both allowed the edge of the moment to pass. "Fine. But settling down, putting down roots. Even if it was a good idea," Bruce was shaking his head- no longer defiant, but realistic, "that's not on the table for Clark anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because she was it for him."

They held each other's gaze. The worst part was that she knew as well as he did. "It's been seven years, Bruce. It scares me." She found she was unable to resist the pall of sadness that overcame her. "Something went away when she died. I don't think it's ever coming back."

...

**At the same time, World Zero.**

A white strobe-light flash and then the clean pop of re-entry, the sound of a fingerclick. She waited the few seconds for her eyes to adjust and the black afterimage spots to clear. First to reappear was the circular stage of the activation zone and her feet on it, then the rest of the room crystallized back into clarity; the overhanging wires and cables that ran up and down the walls; the control desk looming directly before her; the spectral green glow emanating off the instrument dials on the desk. The way, like a kid with a flashlight on Halloween, they uplit her colleague's glowering face.

"Oh, hey," she squinted. But she was totally busted. "Uh, I thought you took off?"

"I forgot my laptop," he said, evenly.

She hopped down. "How long have you been waiting?"

His eyes followed her. "Nearly the whole time."

"Oh."

With vehemence, he swore under his breath which was as close as he ever got to violence. "Goddamn it, Lois."

She raised her hands and tried for a preemptive, "Emil. I'm here. I'm fine."

"What would I have said to the others? What would I have said to your father?"

"My father would've understood."

"You need to stop sneaking in the extra trips. It's dangerous and one day you'll run out of luck."

They were both tired. They were always both tired. And it made them peevish. She busied herself, checking her equipment. "I was in the mood for one more today, okay?"

Emil relented, as she knew he would. Mainly because he was used to being infuriated with her and was wise to the pointlessness of it, but also because he had a kind heart and was aware of what day it was tomorrow. The huffiness gone, he removed his glasses to drag his fingers down over his eyes and nose and the scruff of his beard. "So how'd it go?"

Lois said nothing, but the look on her face was enough.

Emil nodded and reached to tap a button on the panel in front of him. On the oversize analogue counter they had mounted onto the wall to keep track, the end digit rolled up one, replacing a large white 'seven' with an 'eight'.

"Close?"

"Not really." Lois pulled out the semi-automatic she wore on her hip, released the magazine, inspected it, locked it back into place and reholstered the gun. She fussed at her back pocket. "Five kids."

"Five?"

From the pocket she fished out a bunch of passport-sized photographs to show him, stepping up to the control deck to lay them out like she was dealing a hand of cards. "Two girls, three boys, a dog, a rabbit, a joint Pulitzer, four NPF awards _and_ a Peabody." Emil stared at her and she shared his look; a wondering mixture of respect, disbelief and a healthy dose of professional jealousy. Lois explained, "She has a regular radio spot."

Emil's cheek slid to a rest on his fist. Against his knuckles he echoed, "So not really, then."

Her eyebrows raised in agreement.

As if he was judging it, carefully, Emil said, "What was he like?"

Lois said only, "Like Clark." She performed a final inventory of her equipment; resetting the controls on her wristband before returning to her utility belt and making sure the DNA vial was secure, and then removing and putting back the matchbox-sized briefing cache. She was expert at ignoring the pain. Or rather, she had become accustomed and was expert at burying it. She sighed once. "You want to go again?"

Emil made a 'why not' face. "It's so late, it's early."

"One more. Then home, I promise."

"You want something to eat?" He picked up a cold slice of pizza from a soggy cardboard box. "It's stuffed crust?"

They both watched it droop in his hands. Lois gave him a tight polite smile and assured him, thanks, but she was good, and stepped up back on to the podium that marked out the activation zone.

Emil discarded the pizza and rubbed his hands and began the process of running through the necessary formalities like a pre-flight check. He called out, "Prepping, for jump number eight-one-niner."

"Let's do this." And behind her back, like she always did, Lois crossed her fingers. She wished she could be as indifferent and as unaffected as she tried to portray. She wished that she was impervious. She wished that almost above everything else. It would be so much easier. But there it was, every time, clinging, steadfast and stubborn, to the edges of her heart- more debilitating and dangerous than anything.

Hope.

She closed her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**-Chapter Two-**

**World Eight-two-one.**

A panoramic view of the high-rises and skyscrapers of the central business district sparkled, glass and chrome against a rich blue sky. Including him, there were seventeen associates, from five different countries, sat around the table at the meeting in Sydney. Anything under twenty, Clark found, was a good number for establishing a sense of inclusion and cutting through any star-struck nervousness, and made it easier to work quickly. At Clark's back, the quay, and then the harbor, and beyond that, the ocean, glistened, bejeweled by the sun.

Clark was smoothing down his tie, listening with interest to a two-handed presentation reviewing the pilot scheme of an ecology project he was helping to fund. He was aware of a below-surface bristling of approval and enthusiasm in the room. For him, this stage of a project was always an exciting, invigorating time although he was hardly ever directly responsible for whatever success had been earned and it was a vicarious kind of thrill. He was under no illusions about that. He was a catalyst; that was his gift, that was his role. He was a man without personal stakes and that made him powerful. Because of who he was, he had more than people's respect- he had their trust. And no doubt there was pity. But he traveled alone, no entourage, no yes men. No bombast, or hidden agendas or bias. Nothing getting in the way of results, of progress, of promises to be better, to do more. It was amazing, Clark thought. What humanity was capable of if only they would place faith in their humanity.

The presentation finished, the two gentlemen from the Angolan government retook their seats and the lady chairing the meeting gave Clark the floor. Clark stood and thanked her and addressed the table. "It's a privilege to be part of this and I think everyone involved on the ground should feel immense pride at the difference their hard work has achieved at the Benguela site." Intuitively he allowed space for the warm round of applause. "On behalf of the institute I'd like to take this opportunity to announce that the scheme has been greenlit by the governments of Belize, the DRC, Georgia, and Pakistan to be replicated on sites in San Ignacio, Kinshasa, Tbilisi, and Lahore." More happy mumblings backwashed and rolled around the room. Clark nodded. "It represents a real commitment, from all vested parties, and one that is both long-sighted and self-sustaining; two of my absolute favorite words when discussing-"

He didn't finish. Although no one had said anything, although nothing had happened, he felt as if he had been interrupted. His brow drew together and furrowed, "Um, when discussing..."

It was like a layer had been added to his perception, a layer that was within range, but outside of his full attention, like peripheral vision, and he was unable to access it. He couldn't understand the distraction and he couldn't identify it. "Sorry." He shook his head, "Lost my train of thought."

Only a few seconds had passed but everyone present was now hanging on his words. An agitated unspoken excitement had risen around the table as people caught each other's gaze and shared quick glances. He recognized their looks, felt the frisson, the anticipation, could guess what they were all thinking. It was the Madame chair who ventured, a little breathlessly, "Do you have to leave us?"

He waved a hand. "No, no. It's fine." It was almost ludicrous but there was a tangible sense of disappointment and deflation within the room. Clark felt ridiculous and a little embarrassed. He smiled and frowned and re-found his focus, "When discussing environmental targets."

...

As soon as her vision cleared and she could orient herself she ran through the protocols- no longer because of procedure but simply out of habit. Head, arms, legs. Wristband, sidearm, belt. She looked around. The lab was of a standard design and typical layout but it was empty and gloomy and that was unusual. It was late in the evening, but that rarely made a difference. And it was not just that there was no personnel; there was no equipment in the room either. Instead, the desks and work surfaces were sheathed in large white dust sheets and plastic protective covers. Low-level ambient lighting, she held her breath and listened... no trigger alarm, she found a pocketlight on her belt and swept its UV beam over the floor. And no trip lasers; the lab was clearly not in use.

Frowning, Lois went over to the nearest desk, peeled back the corner of one sheet. There, underneath, the table was not empty or bare. It was covered with pieces of paper, large and small. Some of the papers were computer read-outs; graphs and bar charts and long lines of binary code. Some of the papers were torn pages out of a notebook, covered with crossed and re-crossed math equations. Some of the papers were crumpled, or screwed up into tight balls.

Something caught her attention. She lifted the sheet back a couple of inches further to reveal a pile of laminated technical diagrams and exploded drawings. Pulling them out and spacing them on the table with her fingertips, she was intrigued. She rotated the bezel on the pocketlight to a normal setting and directed its circular ray over the blueprints to inspect more closely. Then she lifted her gaze and regarded the empty lab again, then back at the desk. She half-knew what she was looking at. Half-understood. And she was puzzled- this kind of thing really wasn't Bruce's style.

She dropped the sheet back and checked the ceiling. She couldn't see any cameras, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The beam of the flashlight followed the edges of the ceiling searching for a telltale red blinking light. When she found the small white box shape of a motion sensor away in the upper left-hand corner of the room she scrunched her left eye to aim, reached across to her hip, and, in one fluid motion, pulled out her gun and fired.

...

Alfred's shirt sleeves were rolled up past the elbow. An old double page of the Gazette was opened and spread out over the desk. Elgar was playing in the background and Alfred was humming softly along to the da-da-daa-de-dum of Nimrod and polishing Bruce's favorite set of bat-shuriken ninja knives. He held one up to admire his work and its beauty and behind the blade he caught Robin executing a flawless kick-punch-roll combination. Like a connoisseur, he interrupted his humming to murmur in appreciation.

The phone began to ring. On the screen Dick, now goofing around with an orange ring lifebuoy, had his legs knocked out from under him by the swipe of a crowbar. Tutting, and still watching, Alfred wiped his hands, muted the Enigma Variations and picked up the handset.

He listened to what the voice on the other end of the line had to say and, although there was no outward change to his appearance, Alfred was perturbed. "Where is she now?"

On the information, Alfred flicked a dial and the bank of monitors in front of him left Dick and Bruce and became the repeated wallpaper picture of a nondescript multi-storied redbrick building. At the bottom of the screens, the image carried the legend, 'WTech, Met'.

"Which laboratory?"

Alfred keyed another button and the screenshot building disappeared and was replaced by the grainy black and white cube of a large foreshortened room. There was some initial relief. He had almost been expecting a catsuit.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to the head of security at Bruce's Metropolis WayneTech building. When the voice relayed the intruder's stated intentions, Alfred relaxed. He could even smile at the cheekiness of the request. He watched the figure on the screen. The resolution was poor and the intruder's back was turned to him but he could see she was a woman, long dark hair tied back, dressed sleekly in black military-style cargo pants and a close-fitting jacket top. She was sat up on a table in the middle of the lab, heavy combat boots swinging free. Summarily not the usual air of the arch criminal. "Mr Wayne is currently indisposed. Call Gordon and you can inform the young lady I'd be delighted to pass on a message on her behalf."

The security chief informed Alfred that the intruder was insistent on this particular matter. Alfred switched back the monitors to Gotham shipyard. Bruce had one smuggler by both arms and was spinning him in a circle around his head. When Bruce let go, the assailant crashed into a charging huddle of other ski-masked gentlemen, sending them scattering like bowling pins. "I'm afraid that's not possible at this moment."

The security chief said that if Alfred said that, he was to tell Alfred that the intruder's birthday was October twelfth, two thousand and one.

The silence was almost too long. "You're quite sure?"

Yes, sir, the other man said. He repeated the date in full, and added, she's a grown woman- it doesn't make sense to me either.

Carefully, precisely, Alfred produced a pen out of his breast pocket, removed the cap and down one margin of the newspaper he noted the numbers, ten, twelve, zero one. As he did this, with the requisite put-upon boredom in his tone, he advised the security chief, "It's gibberish. This is all some kind of prank, no doubt. It's well-known that Mr Wayne's birthday is in a couple of weeks. This is probably another stunt dreamed up by the media."

The man on the other end of the line began to say something but Alfred cut him off, "To err on the side of caution, clear the building. I'll personally alert the relevant authorities and have someone come down there, immediately." Alfred thanked him and gently replaced the phone back onto its cradle.

Beside the numbers on the newspaper he scribbled the corresponding letter from the alphabet. A simple substitution cipher. A child could break it. They used it, not because it was secure. It was a distress signal.

He switched the screens back to the Metropolis lab. The woman was still turned away. Perhaps it would have been better if she was wearing a cat suit, or a jester's hat, or had leaves threaded, madly, through her hair. The letters on the newspaper spelled out J L A. Whoever she was, this was suddenly much more complicated.

...

Before being dismissed themselves, security had moved her to a holding cell. Now that the building was empty, they had gathered, down the hall, in the security team's office. All eyes were fixed on the figure on the tv feed. Left alone again, they watched the figure hop back onto her bunk.

They glanced around at each other, ashen faced and trying to comprehend what they were witnessing, what they had just heard. Wally was the first to break the silence. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "I guess you can scratch that codeword off the list."

Bruce and Diana opened the door and walked in. To a room of unanswerable questions and five glassy-eyed expressions of concern Bruce held up a hand, "Before we do anything I want Hamilton contacted and his assurances that everything she just said are," he paused, still struggling and coming to terms himself, "theoretically possible."

"Forget theory." Dick raised an open hand to the screen, staring at Bruce first, then Diana, "You just looked her in the eye. You had your lasso." He looked stricken. "Do you believe her?"

Diana's sapphire gaze was clear. "I do."

It rocked them back once more.

Sat on a swivel chair, touching the ring on his closed fist gently to his lips, John said, "Superman _dead_. My God. Can you imagine?"

Coolly, Diana responded, "And how different, exactly, would that be from this world?"

At her side, Bruce growled, "I'm going to assume you can still see the woman on this screen and pretend you never said that."

Diana was unmoved. She snapped, "Don't be so obtuse. Don't you get it? Lois is alive." She implored the others with her eyes, "We could get him back. This could change everything."

"I don't know what this does. But Lois is dead. Nothing changes that."

"The woman he loves is standing in that room." Diana pointed, "Lois Lane is standing in that room."

"She's not his Lois!"

John, Dick, Wally and Kara found separate spots of interest on the walls and floor and avoided eye contact. A new tension had been introduced to the atmosphere- it was sometimes how it was with Bruce and Diana.

From his screen, in lunar orbit two hundred and thirty-thousand miles away, J'onn said, "Bruce. The implications. There're who-knows-how-many parallel realities out there where my people still exist, where Dick's parents are alive. Where _your_ parents are alive."

Bruce was steady. "None of that matters. This is our reality. This is Clark's reality."

To no one in particular, Kara said, "Losing her destroyed him."

"Gaining her- what would that do?" They all turned to Diana. She had her eyes on Bruce.

He returned her gaze. Truthfully, he said, "I have no idea."

Dick spoke up again and his tone was plaintive. "She looks exactly the same."

Failing to sound convincing even to his own ears, Bruce practically pleaded, "She could be completely different."

Everyone was looking at the woman on the screen.

"She deserves the right to be heard," Kara said.

Diana finished, "And he deserves the right to hear her."

...

Out of the corner of his eye, over by the door, Clark could see the young man growing desperate and having increasing difficulty keeping still. The meeting had overrun anyway, but it was often this part that took up the most time.

Clark could be holding talks with the most powerful people in the world, the great and the good, the feted and the celebrated, Presidents, Chancellors, Kings. Media magnates, oil barons, captains of industry. And still, afterwards, they would want an autograph, a quiet word, a recorded message for a new ring tone. It was frivolous, and ancillary, and it drove the aides crazy, but he didn't regard it as beneath him or a chore. On the contrary, it was an important part of it.

Clark exclaimed, "Wombats," and beamed. In the short gap between the lady holding the camera steady and the flash, Clark noted the aide rechecking his watch.

Chuckling, the representative from Andorra handed over the camera and swapped places with her colleague, the man who had just posed shoulder to shoulder with Clark. As she came to stand by Clark's side for her turn, she said, "'Wombats!', Mr Kent?"

He grinned, "An old friend of mine tells me saying something unexpected is better than 'Cheese'. According to him, it provokes a more spontaneous, natural expression of the facial muscles."

Another smile, another flash for another picture and, finally, the aide was moved to step in. Forehead shining and weighed down with apology he came over to Clark. "Sir. I've been given strict instructions from the Metropolis office. Miss Manguel-"

Clark reached and patted him warmly at the elbow, "I know, I know, I'm late." From his jacket pocket he retrieved his cell, "I've buzzed myself twice."

The young man was gripping his own smartphone in both hands. In a rush, he gabbled, "It's just that it's tricky to reschedule and you can't make up time with His Holiness afterwards because of the-"

Clark opened his hands that it was okay, "Coronation, right." He pushed his fingers off his eyebrows, saluting, "Tell Hong Kong I'm on my way."

But Clark was stopped, mid-stride, heading for the windows, his path blocked by the most beautiful-looking secretary Clark's aide had ever seen. Golden hair that seemed spun from the sun itself was neatly combed back and pinned in a tight no nonsense bun. A pair of thick-framed glasses complemented cheekbones that could have been carved out of stone. The woman had not noticed the aide, though. Her gaze was concentrated only on his boss. And she looked very, very serious.

She told Clark, "That's all going to have to wait."

...

While they were still in the air, they could see the giant oak doors of the front entrance being opened for them. It was coming up to midnight in Gotham and the widening rectangle of yellow light from inside the house cast an expressionistic zigzag pattern where it fell down the portico steps.

With Kara on his heels, Clark breezed past Alfred and through the vaulted-ceiling expanse of the hall and they arrived at the grand drawing room of Wayne Manor. Clark strode in. "Okay, I'm here. And I just snubbed brunch with the Dalai Lama. What's going on?"

Five faces turned to him. Wally, Dick, John, Bruce and Diana. They were all sat together on the couches in the middle of the room. "Oh," Clark said. "Everyone." Leaning back on his heels he looked at Kara, "I feel like I should've brought a bottle or something." But his cheerfulness struck a discordant note that seemed to linger, unwelcome, in the air. He reconsidered. "Or not."

Warily, slowly, the group stood. Clark eyed the semi-circle they created. "We've still got a couple of weeks, right?" He thumbed at Bruce as if to alert everyone else to his presence, "Guys, this is, like, the worst surprise party ever."

Bruce's face seemed to fall. He stepped forward, looking even grimmer than normal. "As your friend, what I'm about to tell you may be upsetting or unbelievable," in the air, his fingers were crouched, "but the important thing is," he took a breath,

"- Don't freak out."

At Dick's interruption Bruce said nothing but there was a jaw-clenched pursing of lips and a flaring of nostrils.

Addressing Dick, Clark nudged his head at Bruce, "Him. Being so melodramatic- that's what freaks me out."

Pained, Bruce said, "I'm trying to do this the right way."

For the first time, Clark really tuned in to the atmosphere around him and he was unnerved. Everyone was still staring at him. "What's going on?"

Dick wetted his lips. "Shall I get Alfred to get some Scotch?"

Kara's eyes rolled in disgust. "In the name of Rao. The man's a Kryptonian."

Diana also treated Dick to a withering once-over, "And he has the heart of a lion."

Dick's palms were raised, "This is some pretty heavy stuff, that's all!"

Clark's eyes scanned their faces, "Okay. Now you really are freaking me out."

"Lois is here, Clark."

Bruce's words sliced through the room, cleaving it, abrupt and unflinching. It left a heavy, harrowed silence.

All brevity was gone, fetched away. Clark was still. They could only watch his reaction, helpless to prevent the skewering that a careless mention of her had the power to inflict.

He looked drained. His voice was deep and imposing. "Lois, who?"

"Lois Lane."

Now Clark was the one that was staring- at Bruce. His eyes had come alive again, but not with lightness or humor. It was as if someone had poked at something, and disturbed it. And now, inside, it burned white-hot. He scratched out, "That's not funny."

Diana looked so sad. She clarified, "She's from a parallel earth."

Wearing the same expression, Bruce told him, "She wants to see you."


	3. Chapter 3

**-Chapter Three-**

The upper floor of the east wing was used as guest rooms for family friends and visitors, so it was not used much. Clark didn't think that he had ever walked down here before. The silence, and the pooled arcs of low light, and a rich undisturbed smell of table polish gave the hallway the same sense of antiquity and of obsolescence that was present in so much of the house, and that, by turns, was so helpful to its owner.

A deep claret-red runner stretched away the length of the hall, its thickness muting Clark's footsteps, making them dull. But the sound and the rhythm was echoed and expanded and then amplified in the heartbeat thudding in the middle of his chest so that, stride for stride, the sensation became oppressive and required a conscious effort to breathe normally. His skin, his nerve endings, the air itself, seemed charged with energy and anticipation. Once, he would have taken it for granted; now it was hard to remember the last time he had felt like this.

He came to a door and stopped. The door was paneled in dark, heavy wood and in it his reflection was refracted and obscured. He straightened, fixed his tie, ran a hand through his hair, swallowed a couple of times, gathered himself. Around him everything was quiet. His eyes closed, his right hand balled into a fist, and, for a second, he held it, raised and suspended at the door. With as much composure as he could muster he gave three quick announcing knocks, and then he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Inside, the room was characteristic of the rest of the mansion. Long and wide with an unfeasibly high ceiling, and furnished with expensive fabrics and oddly-shaped art pieces that decorated the bookshelves. At this end of the room a dining table had been laid, its surface crowded, banquet-style, with all kinds of provisions. The shining domed covers of cloche trays, and tureens, and a full silver service setting were surrounded and hemmed in by loaves of french bread, bowls filled with every type of fruit, a platter of cold meats, cheeses, pastries, smaller dishes of nuts, chips, sticks of carrot and celery. There were wine bottles, and water bottles, cut-crystal decanters, and cans of soda.

By comparison the rest of the room was spare- the only other furniture was cramped together at the far end where it was dominated by a giant fireplace on the opposite wall. A wide oval-shaped Persian rug took up the floor space in front of the hearth and on it two low leather couches flanked a clawfoot coffee table. With a heavy, marble mantel and a thick flue that rose the full height of the room, the fireplace was huge. And, standing before it, there she was.

She was facing away from him, hands deep in pockets, looking into the flames, the shape of her silhouetted by their light. A vial containing her DNA had been checked and rechecked, so, in one respect at least, there was no question of authenticity. Still, it was a shock to recognize her, to recognize so clearly the set and carry of her, the specific lines and attitudes of her body; the sweep of her neck, the tilt of her head, the way it was inclined ever so slightly this way and her shoulders that way and her hips the other way again. The way she was leaning her weight to one side, one leg straight, and one leg bent, like when she was trying to be patient, or when she was undecided, or when she was both. Long hair was tied back in a ponytail that didn't fall straight because it was kinked with waves. She was still wearing the army boots and black tank top and fatigues in which they said she had arrived.

She turned to the door then and Clark felt the breath leave him, felt the wrench, and he realized how wholly unprepared he was for the moment. It had been so long, such a long time had passed, and it had passed slowly, and dutifully, and without consideration. Days into weeks and weeks into months and months into years. Enough time for memory to fade and to fray around the edges and play tricks. But their eyes locked and he was looking at her, and she was looking at him, and he could see she had the exact same nose, the exact same ears, the same chin- the same face. The same papercut-sized interruption of skin just below the line of her left eyebrow that she sustained when she was eight years old and failed to complete a somersault off the turret of an M1 battle tank. She had the same dimple underneath her mouth, the one that he was sure was a perfect fit for his thumb. The one that had always made him long to place his thumb there and then drag the pad of it, slowly, along the swell of her bottom lip. She had the same eyelashes, thick and delicate, the fire now casting their shadow onto the brow of her cheeks. Most of all, worst of all, underneath a long side-sweep of fringe, she had the same eyes, the darkest color of chocolate, liquid, quick, and shining. The sight of her, no more than thirty feet away, simply confirmed what he had always suspected; the hard, unyielding, inescapable truth that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.

He wanted to tell her this, all this that he had carried and guarded and kept for himself. He felt that it was only right and only fair that he should. Instead, as if to make space for the pressing on his heart, he leaned the door closed and said, "Hi."

"Hey." She breathed the word back, softly and with care.

The sound of her voice was another mini-ordeal to be endured and ridden out and it was a second before he could trust himself to move again. He crossed the room without taking his gaze off her and now he could begin to notice the differences. Her eyes were not quite the same afterall. They were older and wiser, and sad in a way that was not familiar. When Clark reached where floorboard became rug he came to a halt. He heard himself say, "It's you."

Light spread from her eyes to her face. "Yes."

"Are you real?"

He saw her expression change, saw it cloud, as if _he_ was the one who had taken her by surprise and she was having to re-evaluate her own inner process of appraisal. "Yes."

Clark's throat bobbed. He held a finger towards his temple in apology for the nature of the question. "Sometimes. My imagination can-"

The smile was back in her eyes. "I'm real."

His eyes glinted. With a crooked smile playing at his lips, he looked away at the ceiling. He confessed, "This basically tops my list of impossible things I never expected to see, but dreamed about anyway."

There was an asymmetric twitch of her eyebrows and a pause. Dry, full of mischief, she said, "I beat out flying unicorns, huh?"

Clark's heart sang with relief that wherever she had come from, and whatever other place she belonged to, there was some thing of this her that it knew. He couldn't help the grin, "And the Loch Ness monster."

This time he made her smile; an unabashed, full-blown smile that wiggled her ears and rounded her cheeks. Witnessing it was extremely beguiling and Clark had to mentally kickstart an order of calm. "Are they taking care of you?"

They both regarded the room, decked out with the finest things. Lois gestured at the tableful of food and drink she couldn't possibly consume and then to one end of a couch where a robe and a pile of clean clothes hadn't been touched. "You know Bruce."

Clark's gaze came back to her. There was a polite but troubled smile of agreement and a knitting of eyebrows. "How do you?"

Lois gently knocked her fist against the side of her thigh as if deciding where exactly to start. "How much have they told you?"

"Just what you told them." His arms lifted from his sides a fraction, "I guess we got as far as the fact that I'm dead, something about the second meteor site, Luthor's in the White House," he waited a beat, "and you were having tea down the hall?"

His rundown was made with a kind of twinkly-eyed acknowledgment that each statement was potentially more ludicrous than the last and he could hardly believe he was saying them. Lois took up and echoed his self-possession, "They covered the highlights, then." She blew out a breath and hitched and squared her shoulders. "Okay. Well. You've probably got a lot of questions, but I've been around the block with this, so, bear with me, okay?"

He nodded and she opened a hand to her right. "It's better if we sit down."

They moved to the couches, two antique Chesterfields upholstered in dark green leather that squeaked as they took their seats. Opposite each other, much nearer now with only the coffee table between them, it all felt very proper and formal, like they were about to discuss stock options. The awkwardness was heightened because Clark was fighting an urge to get closer, to reach out and touch her. He had no idea if this was purely psychological- an intellectual need to check and to satisfy himself that she wouldn't suddenly melt away under contact, or some kind of deeper, more primal reaction to the enforced deprivation. The feeling was enhanced because she seemed to possess a confidence around him that he had never known and was a mystery. Everything about her was mesmerizing and he found that he was drinking her in. He forced himself to focus on focusing.

There was a brief squeeze of one eye as she confided, "This is the first divergence where I'm dead." She blinked, correcting, "I mean, really dead." A shake of her head loosened the tendrils of hair framing her face. Quietly, almost to herself, she said, "It's a little weird."

Clark frowned. "How many times have you done this?"

"How many worlds? This is number eight hundred and twenty-one."

Her answer, and the throwaway ease with which she said it, surprised him. "How many worlds are there?"

Lois shrugged, "Piece of string," then shook her hand and apologized for the bad quantum joke. The same hand made a pathway through the air, "Divergences are diverging all the time, branching out, splitting, splitting again- according to the best multi-world models- with infinite possibilities. That's assuming it started at a single point, which," her hands opened helplessly, "nobody knows. Not even Emil."

"So. You're working through these divergences," Clark reached for a suitable term, "systematically?"

She smiled, "We wish we could. Unfortunately, it's much more chaotic and arbitrary. For our sake, we use our world as reference point zero."

Clark was attempting to understand the fundamental process behind it all; "But you're working your way through them, counting them off-"

"One at a time. Right."

"And there's no order?"

Lois squinted. She decided, "There's no road map, put it that way. I close my eyes and I jump and I end up in a new world. We can't calibrate our technology to pick out a particular destination or version." She held up her hands like an overlapping bridge, one set of fingers on top of the other, "We assume that each new world is the Next One, another layer in a deck of cards." She allowed, "In that sense, I guess what we're doing has a linear, aggregate form of direction."

Something came into his eyes. He said, quite reasonably, "And it's a leap of faith?"

With the matter-of-fact manner of someone who had never spent much time mulling over the existential niceties, her response was simply, "Yes."

"How often can you ...make a jump?"

"We average about a jump a day. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends on how this part goes."

Clark began to calculate the math, "So you've been doing this-"

"Every day," she tweaked her head, "since we got up and running. Four and a half years R and D; building the program, perfecting it, trial and error. We've been fully operational going on two years, now."

"Who's we?"

"Since you-" She hedged and tried again, "My you-" Her hand swatted the air as if she was annoyed by her stumbling and she went for something easier- "Since it all happened. We've worked as a resistance cell; the JLA, myself, doctor Emil Hamilton. My father and Bruce Wayne act as our respectable front and have major roles within the administration."

"Luthor's administration?"

"As far as we can tell, he suspects but has no proof of their true allegiance. We think he prefers them where he can see them."

Clark, taking it all in, conjured a small, crooked smile, "Sounds pretty dystopian."

Lois gazed, not at anything in particular, but inwardly, at something unseen. "It was, at first. There were uprisings. Casualties- civilians. Close calls for us, too. Carter and Shiera sacrificed themselves a couple times. Metropolis was a battleground for a while. Then-" She looked him in the eyes again, sober, clasped her hands together, "water kept on running out of the faucet, there was still gas in the gas station. Luthor introduced better social security, lower taxes, free cable. You get used to it." Her eyes hooded. "Turns out you can get used to anything."

"So, your resistance cell," Clark asked, "are you all jumping, all of the time?"

"No, it's just me," she was nodding, "it's all we can manage. The others are kept pretty busy." On her arm, in place of a watch there was a thick metallic wristband. She offered her arm to show him. The wristband was not chunky, it was about the same dimensions and shape of one of Diana's bracelets but it was set with a rectangular dialface configured with all kinds of buttons and pin-sized diodes and readings that oscillated as they talked. "Jumping requires a certain amount of energy. Our current technology provides a payload that's sufficient for two people at a time before it tops out."

"No back up?" Clark had wanted to sound more impressed, or at least more neutral, but he couldn't prevent an undertone of worry.

If Lois was sensitive to it, felt even slightly patronized, she continued like she wasn't or didn't. She pressed at something on the wristband. "I can activate this to send an emergency signal if I run into trouble. If I don't have time to activate an emergency signal or I miss checking in, Emil can access my vital signs, override from his end, and bring me home. He stays and mans the lab until I get back."

"And do you?" Clark enquired, his eyes shining. "Run into trouble?"

She reflected his expression back at him. She said, "Sometimes."

"Two people." Clark considered it. "Seems like a lot of work."

Bobbing her head, Lois explained, "Pretty early on we faked a couple of deaths; a lab explosion, a car accident. Held the funerals, filed the certificates. Guessed it would be easier if they weren't looking for us anymore."

"What about Clark Kent?"

"Officially? He disappeared in one of the first rebellions. He's missing, presumed dead."

"Who knows the truth?"

"Us. Your mom, of course. When she was alive. No one else."

"What about the others?" Clark said. "The rest of the league? What are they doing?"

"Heroing off the grid, as criminals, outlaws. Luthor controls the skies- he designed a forcefield that negates the power of flight. Superheroes, metahumans, their associates- they're illegal, and there are rewards." At his face, she reassured, "No one's ever turned anybody in, but it tends to focus minds and we have to be more careful. Leaguers work in smaller teams, on an ad hoc basis, and we meet when we can." Lois counted off her fingers, listing, "There's Bruce and Diana's crowd, the Robins, the twins, Ollie and Dinah. Arthur and Mera stay out on the run," she threw up a hand to correct, "Swim. They prefer it that way."

Clark could only nod along and try to digest and even imagine an existence like that. Finally, he gave her a crinkley-eyed sidelong look and said, "Luthor killed me?" He was not upset. More annoyed at his carelessness.

But he saw in her eyes that she was still affected by it. "A Kryptonite trap." And her gaze distanced and was elsewhere again. "I basically let Clark run into it. I didn't realize. Half a second earlier?" She re-focused on him. "Doing this," she said, "I suppose a certain amount of second-guessing is inevitable." A smile flickered, "I sometimes think if only I knew then what I know now."

In sympathy, with experience, his eyes burned at her, "You can't blame yourself."

She smiled, held her shoulders to her neck, "I don't. Not really." She hesitated then and, for the first time since they'd met, her expression seemed to falter. She looked a little timid. "The Clark in my world. He never told me..."

When she didn't finish, Clark followed her gaze. His eyes dropped to where she was staring- at his chest. His eyebrows raised at her, "You're saying it was my fault?"

She smiled back, and it was wistful. "I guess we ran out of time." She shook it off, "I just wish I could've gotten there earlier. It was seven years ago, now. Yesterday was the anniversary." Softly, she repeated, "I guess we ran out of time."

Clark let out a slow breath through his nose. "I don't know if that would've been better. You arriving earlier." His hands were folded, resting between his knees. His thumbs lifted, "Did Bruce talk to you about-."

"Me? Only that it was Luthor."

"Luthor, the Kryptonite. The trap. It happened here." One corner of his mouth lifted, one shoulder shrugged, "It sounds the same." His eyes became haunted, "Except, in this world, you were there. And you did save my life. And you lost yours."

"Yin and yang," she said. "I see a lot of that." Her head nudged to the side as she reflected on each point, "My mom's still alive in one world, but not my dad. Your dad's still alive in another world, but not your mom." She looked thoughtful. "The universe seems to seek balance."

Something crossed her face and her expression changed, as if she'd been struck by a thought. Her eyes went to his chest again, seemed to scrutinize it, and she drew an S shape in the air. "Did she know?"

"No. No, I never told her." Clark looked at his hands. He pushed his palms down his thighs to his knees, refolded them there. "I tried. A couple of times." His voice became thicker, "Almost got it out, too. It was getting to that point, you know?" He glanced up to find her eyes, "Like you said. I guess we ran out of time."

"Your Bruce told me," she pointed to her own face, at the obvious lack of glasses, there, at the place she thought some glasses should be- "now everyone knows?" The middle of her eyebrows creased in an expression that was not exactly rude, but clearly said, what's that about?

Clark stared back. "Things changed when I lost you. I changed. I figured a world that doesn't have a Superman doesn't need a Clark Kent."

She listened and then she smiled, and even though she was still frowning, the smile was kind. "That doesn't seem right."

"No, it doesn't."

For a moment they were quiet, as if they were both trying to slide something into place without having all the pieces. Then Clark said, "So." One eyebrow arched, "you've met eight hundred and twenty-one versions of me?"

She was nodding. "Eight hundred twenty-two," her head dipped to him, "if you include the original."

"Wow. What are they like?"

She grinned. "All pretty similar. You know-" her eyelids flickered as she looked up at the ceiling, "hot." There was a shy half-laugh. She nudged a shoulder. "Shield. Cape. Glasses."

"They all keep up the double-identity?"

Lois bowed her head, yes. "The normal life, the superhero. You're not, like, ever hiding out in the suburbs and selling insurance or anything."

"All alive?"

She nodded.

"What about you?"

She tilted her head, thinking. After a pause, she said, "I guess we're unique in our versions' extinctness."

"And the eight hundred twenty-two versions of you." He blinked, "What are they like?"

"I'm a reporter, always," she told him, then amended, "so far." Her smile widened to a grin; "Brave, bold. Brassy. All of that. A special talent for risking life and limb- although that's never the way I tell it."

"I remember that."

They found that they were beaming at each other and it seemed to prompt her toward something because, again, her expression flickered and turned bashful. "In all of the worlds, so far. All of the versions. You and I. That is, we..." her hand was waving in the air between them. "We're..."

Clark peered, curious. She was clearly laboring. And blushing.

"Well, we're," The hand cycled through the air once more and came to a rest. With determination she eked out, "Involved."

Something hidden away and tender was stabbed at. Clark said, "Partners. At the Planet?"

One eyelid closed faster than the other and her expression became tricky. It was apparent the intention was to infer they were something more than partners.

Clark's throat closed a little and the words caught, "A couple?"

Underneath her bang of hair and a crumpled frown, her eyes shone black, "I guess, the other versions, they all made it a little further down the line then we did."

It was more than Clark had ever allowed himself to imagine. He braved the pleasure and the pain and asked, "Married?"

"Mostly," she nodded. "Sometimes, engaged. Sometimes, just together."

"We have a life?"

"Oh yeah." Her hands separated and clasped again, "Kids, pets, car payments- the whole thing."

It was a shattering, discombobulating moment. "Kids?"

"In about fifty per cent of cases, I would say."

Clark felt himself struggling with this information, but, winningly, she seemed oblivious. She barraled along, "Jonathans, Jasons, Ellas, Marthas, Sams. Christophers, Karas, Laras. A couple of Peregrines." She stopped; "even a baby Jorel." Her eyes were alight- "We- they- tell everyone it's an old family name. Irish."

He rasped, "What are they like?"

"The kids? Dark hair, rosy cheeks," a grin cracked her face, "dirty faces. My God. Beautiful children."

"Do they have powers?"

Lois nodded. "They seem to pick them up as they get older, and at different strengths. One kid will develop more sensitive superhearing, another'll be able to run faster, another'll be better at flying. A real mixed bag. They're all doing well in school. Lots of friends. All fantastically polite. They all go to bed when they're told. Which, you know." She smiled and breathed, "They don't get that off me."

"This is incredible to hear."

The look in her eyes shadowed and became torn. "That's the fun stuff." She took a deep breath. "There's also the not-so-fun stuff."

He observed her, perfectly calm, "This is the part where you ask me to go back with you. Step in, stop Luthor."

"Listen." She was reaching for a small cache that she was wearing on her belt, "We have a plan in place-"

They were interrupted by the tinny opening bars of an electronic ringtone. "Sorry!"

But the tension of the moment had been punctured. Lois looked amused. She watched him, "Would you like a minute?"

Patting to find it, Clark removed a cell phone from an inside pocket and silenced it. "It's not a big deal." He glanced up, embarrassed, "I forgot to turn this thing off."

She watched him read it. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's an automated alarm." He showed it her, "My office programs my cell with reminders. I keep a pretty busy schedule."

Lois's chin lifted. "Your office." Her eyes were dancing. "What was the reminder?"

"That I should be getting ready to attend the investiture of an Arabian Princess."

Of all possible responses, Lois was not expecting that. "Oh."

Clark opened a hand to her, "Sounds like something out of Scheherazade, right? When actually it's more of a socio-political, post-feminism, ... thing." When Lois raised an enquiring eyebrow, he continued, "Her father is something of a reformer. It's a small tribe, but it'll be the first time the line of succession has passed to a woman."

Lois was impressed. "Wow. Perry's sending you?"

Clark told her, "No. No. It's a personal invitation. I don't work at the Planet anymore."

She was surprised. Another revelation. Another piece that complicated the picture. He could see in her face that without Superman, without the Planet, he was making it difficult for her to triangulate an accurate fix.

He stood up off the couch. "Just give me a second. I'll go cancel."

Lois rose with him. "No, don't be ridiculous." One hand lifted, "When do you have to leave?"

"For the coronation?" Clark checked his wristwatch, "They're expecting me in about an hour."

"Go," she shooed him. "This happens all the time. There's always some kind of disruption. You are," she stopped, checked herself, because he wasn't, not here, so she settled for, "you." She shrugged, no problem, "I'll wait."

Clark wasn't sure.

She read it and hunched her shoulders, "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"I'll be back by tomorrow, I guess."

"I can wait," she insisted. "There's no time limit or countdown or anything. As long as Bruce doesn't mind, I'll hang out here." Her hands went to the small of her back in pragmatic fashion.

Clark glanced down at the wristband, "What about the other side? Emil?"

Lois flipped her hand that he'd be fine. "He keeps himself busy. He's reading 'War and Peace', he can add to his character chart." There was an adorable, tight-lipped, accommodating, smile.

"It's not that big of a deal."

Her tone chided him, "You're bearing witness to an important cultural moment; you're going to watch history being made. Right?"

For a few beats they just looked at each other. With an effort, Clark went to leave, got as far as halfway to the door then stopped. Then, as if thinking better of it, he went to leave again. But, again, he stopped. He half-turned back and found her eyes. "You wouldn't. You wouldn't like to come?"

It took a second and then her eyes widened. "To the coronation?" Immediately she fended off whatever had induced the reaction, replaced it with something more sober, more appropriate. She seemed to retract in on herself. "I don't want to impose."

"No, you wouldn't," Clark was quick to reassure. "No one wanted to go with me- it's in a remote part of the desert, there's no alcohol," he bit his top lip, braced himself, and just went for it, "the ceremony is nine hours long."

"Nine hours?"

His eyes narrowed, "You'd think I'd be beating people off with a stick, right?"

She breathed out a laugh.

"Because, uh, you'd be bearing witness to an important cultural moment?" His expression remained innocent. "You'd watch history being made?"

Lois could only twitch her lips at him, at her own words being used so flagrantly against her. "I don't know."

Clark weaved his head. "I'm trying to take advantage of that latent but finely-tuned journo streak."

She well knew; "Yes."

He became exceedingly grave. "There're free camel rides."

She laughed out loud. Then she let out a deep sigh. Helpless, her arms raised and flopped at her sides, "I don't have anything to wear."

Clark could've skipped, could've punched the air. "Bruce can take care of that. I can wait." His blue eyes gleamed with delight. "I can wait."

...

In support, out of solidarity, out of curiosity, everyone had stuck around. The television was on in the background, volume down, playing sports news. Bruce and John were hunched over, perched on the edge of the couches, facing each other down, locked in a cut-throat and intense chess match. A minor scuffle outside a bar in Keystone called for Wally to intervene, but he was back within minutes and didn't miss his turn at the table for the game of pool he was contesting with Dick.

Clark had been with Lois for about thirty minutes when Bruce's cell rang and it turned out to be Clark on the phone. After a short conversation, Bruce placed another set of calls and arrangements were made. Kara and Diana were asked to go over to the east wing and assist and that had been thirty minutes ago.

A large bowl of peanuts had been placed within convenient reach on the counter by the pool table. Kara and Diana had just returned to the room. Kara dropped down on the end of John's couch and picked up the folded-over Suduko puzzle she had left on the arm. Diana went to fix herself a tall glass of water from the drinks cabinet Bruce kept over by the television. Dick scooped out a handful of peanuts, threw them high into the air, and caught them in his mouth, one, two, three. Leaning against his cue stick, munching them, he was thoughtful. Out of one side of his mouth, he said, "So, it's like a date, right?"

Dick might as well have announced that he was thinking of stepping away from crime-fighting to pursue a career as a strip-o-gram; an inarticulate but enthusiastically derisory and voluble chorus of windy scowls was the response, issued by everyone, but mainly from Bruce and Diana. Without looking at each other they slipped into tag team mode. Diana sounded appalled. She nudged her glass, "It's not a date- she's a freedom fighter."

Bruce insisted, "It's a work thing. Clark had a long-standing commitment to attend-"

"she's going to go with him. It gives her a chance to brief him."

"To discuss strategy, plan the next move, figure out the best tactical solution to defeating Luthor."

Everyone was looking and listening and, ostensibly agreeing, and yet, somehow, despite the protestations, no one seemed as convinced as when they had begun. Especially not Bruce and Diana.

"Hey." All heads turned to the door where Clark had appeared.

He had changed out of his business suit and into one of a lighter material and a paler gray. A light blue shirt was underneath and he had left the first few buttons open at the collar to dangle a pair of dark sunglasses there. The suit was smart and slim and although it embarrassed him and bothered him when they all made a point of teasing him about it, the way he could wear a suit helped explain why he routinely topped all the magazine hot lists. Behind him, followed Lois.

There was an open-mouthed abbreviated intake of breath when she stepped into the light. The girls were beaming, the boys stood and straightened and over everyone there fell a reverent, admiring, hush. A room-wide once-over worked its way from the bottom to the top. Her standard-issue combat boots were gone and had been replaced by a pair of strappy high-wedged sandals and painted toenails. The toned curves of two long legs continued upwards and were met at knee-height by a wrap dress, the color of polished silver. From one side the dress was drawn tight across to the opposite hip where it was cinched and tied on the scoop of her waist. Together with the short-sleeves loose on her shoulders, it created a shallow V-neckline of exposed skin on which rested a delicate diamond necklace. When the necklace caught the light it shimmered, the same effect as the smudge of color on her eyes. Her hair was no longer tied back in a ponytail. It spilled loose, a tumbling cascade of wide glossy waves down her back and around her shoulders.

Sophisticated and simple, the effect was stunning and there was something powerful and sure and dignified in the sight of the two of them together. Lois seemed aware and conscious of their impact and of the atmosphere in the room. If Clark was not unaware, he gave no indication that he cared either. He had offered Lois his hand to lead her across the room to where floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the estate. All business, he was telling them, "Listen, I'm not too sure what time we'll be finished. But we'll be back here by first thing tomorrow, okay?"

Bruce, everyone, was nodding dumbly after them. It was when he'd been waiting by the first window for a time and still nothing had happened that Clark glanced back and only then did he appear to notice that they had silenced the room. Politely, he asked, "Bruce?" He had to point at the glass. "Would you mind?"

Recovering, almost apologetically, Bruce bent down to the coffee table and flicked a switch on a panel underneath. The window in front of Clark hinged open.

Standing there with him Lois realized he meant to take her in his arms. "Oh," she stumbled, reddening and pulling at her fingers, only just able to meet his eye. "It's been a while since I've done this."

Clark smiled and shuffled and admitted, "Me too."

Then, as if they had rehearsed it, he lowered one shoulder a little and she hopped a little, and, gently, he gathered her off the ground. Lois expelled a small involuntary sigh and for a second they were gazing at each other, the draft from the window tugging at her hair. As if remembering there were other people in the room, she looked, offered up a fluttery wave of goodbye and they were gone.

Bruce closed the window. His eyes tracked from face to face. They sized it up, upturned their mouths, nodded at each other. There was a unanimous decision; "Date."

...

Leaving Gotham Lois was equal parts nervous, hoping that Clark couldn't tell she was nervous, and embarrassed that she felt nervous in the first place. That this Clark didn't have his Lois shouldn't make a difference but she knew that it did, and she knew it from the perilous moment that this Clark had opened the door and she had looked into his eyes and seen something there that was kindred.

They flew across the ocean, towards the sunlight and after a while she was able to settle in and become accustomed to the presence and the pressure of his hands around her waist and on her thigh. Clark flew them high, above the clouds, away from the wind, so they could talk. She wanted to know why Clark was attending an Arabian princess' coronation ceremony and under what circumstance one received a formal invitation to such an event. Clark explained that they were headed for the northern part of Arabia, for a settlement on the Sinai that had once served the old trade routes. The settlement was the oldest and most cultivated of several similar outposts belonging to a small nomadic tribe that could trace an illustrious ancestry back to the time of the Persian Empire, to Clio, and Herodotus, and Cyrus the Great.

Lois was taken by the romance of it all, "We're going to visit the Bedouin?"

Clark scrunched one cheek. He told her that although that was strictly true, the current head of the tribe was enthusiastic about maintaining his people's heritage and traditions whilst integrating newer ideas and technologies; "So, it's not all adventures on horseback and passing round the shisha pipe."

"How disappointing."

Clark smiled. "Last year the head of the tribe, the sheik, volunteered his clan to assist as logistical support for a humanitarian project out in the desert. That's how I know him. On the same project, herdsmen from a second tribe, distant cousins of his, worked as guides. That was when the head of the second tribe asked if I would attend his son's wedding later that same afternoon. A huge honor."

"What did you say?"

"Yes."

Her eyes narrowed, "I see. And today, it's the first guy's daughter's big day?"

"The succession of his throne. The first time a woman will have held the position in two thousand years. And he invited me."

Lois nodded once, understanding. "Also a huge honor."

Clark craned his head to one side, "The two families, the clans. They get along-"

"But local pride is at stake."

He nodded. Lois studied him, her brow furrowed at the idea that this kind of realpolitiking seemed necessary on such a micro scale. "So what are you here? Some kind of über celebrity?"

He said nothing but the assertion had Clark looking uncomfortable so Lois didn't press the point. She told him that back home her situation couldn't be more opposite. In order to keep them safe, anyone not directly involved in the resistance movement- Perry, under house arrest, Jimmy, devoted to Perry and devoted to printing a weekly fanzine version of the Planet, even her sister- believed her to be dead.

When Clark lifted an eyebrow and informed her that in this world she didn't have a sister, they cross-checked and shared other similarities and differences. On both worlds Clark's father had died whilst Clark was still in his teens, but his mother had passed only recently, just three years ago. As a way of dealing with her own grief, Lois confided that after Clark's death she had written to Martha, but had had to do so under the alias of her new identity. Clark began to lower their altitude and they agreed it would probably be best to use her new identity and not introduce herself as 'Lois Lane' here, either.

It was early morning over the Sinai and the skies were clear. From the air, from several thousand feet, Lois was able to make out the geography of an encampment below. A sprawling outer boundary formed a large squarish shape beyond which there was nothing but a vast wilderness of red desert and stratified outcrops of rock that reared vertically, the size of cathedrals. Within, areas of the settlement had been fenced off and held cattle, and corrugated structures and covered rooftops of all sizes were organized along roadways like a small village. Over to the west of the settlement an area of water, an oasis, reflected, like glass, in the sun.

As they drew closer, Lois could pick out more details. The oasis was shaded on one side by a grove of date palms while on the near-side there was a narrow promenade of wooden decking and a small jetty. An assortment of cars and SUVs and flatbed trucks were parked in between the tents and buildings, and in one corner of the camp, taking up several acres, a copse of steel triple-bladed windmills were augmented by a line of shiny black half-court sized solar panels.

"You see the turbines?"

Lois answered yes.

"They power all the vehicles, all the lights. Everything's run on electricity."

"Ethical."

"Practical. The tribe doesn't have to rely on refuelling trips into town. They can just take the turbines apart, pack them up, and move on."

Lois whistled her admiration as they came into land and Clark touched them gracefully down. Her toes lighted not onto soft sand but against stone paving slabs that skirted the largest of the tents she had seen from the air. She looked around her- the settlement was a wonderfully unpredictable mixture of the old and the new, the straightforward and the exotic.

Almost as they arrived, a gathering of people exited and rounded the tent to greet them. The guests were an explosion of color- the men in long, white tunics, bright in the glare of the sun, and the women in black dresses that were embroidered and dyed in brilliant purples, oranges, blues. Out of the crowd emerged a small, middle-aged gentleman with a red-checked keffiya, a neat, pointed beard, and a wide smile. He was striding forward and when he saw Clark he threw out his arms and bellowed a loud, cheerful, "Assalaamu aleikum!'"

Lois watched as he kissed Clark on each cheek. "Wa aleikum assalaam."

The gentleman leaned back, chuckling, the deep lines on his face creased by excitement and delight.

Clark opened a shoulder to turn and address her, "It's my pleasure to introduce you to His Royal Highness, Sheik Zayed Hamid." The gentleman touched the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead and gave a small bow of the head. Clark turned back towards the sheik. "Sir, I'd like you to meet," momentarily stumped, for a second Clark shared the briefest look with Lois, "my friend." They smiled at each other, "Sadie."

Lois stepped forward, "Wa aleikum assalaam wa rahmatullah wa barakaatuh." And then she uttered more words, clicking her tongue and expertly rasping out her glottal stops. The sheik said something in response and the exchange turned into a conversation. She made it sound easy and musical but Clark was lost. A throwaway comment from Lois drew an appreciative sigh from the other guests and prompted Sheik Hamid to gesture extravagantly to the sky. Lois blushed.

The sheik flattened his right hand against his heart and turned to Clark. "Your friend has a remarkable way with the language. The beauty of her tongue is matched only by the luminosity of her presence."

Clark's gaze met Lois's. In the morning light his eyes seemed a deeper shade of blue. "It is."

Gripping his hands in front of his face the sheik announced they were nearly ready to start. With a final bow he left them to lead the other guests back into the main tent.

Lois was watching Clark watching her. An interested eyebrow was arched in her direction. "What?"

Clark stuck his hands in his pockets and they went to join the back of the line. "Fluent in Arabic?"

Lois demurred, "Hardly." Her noise wrinkled. "I have a working grasp."

"_I_ have a working grasp." Clark dipped his head at the people in front, "You just charmed a crowd of strangers."

Lois tutted that he was being over the top. She insisted, "It's not classical Arabic- I speak more of a dialect. My father was based in Oman for a little bit, we had an Egyptian tutor." In the face of his continued skepticism, earnestly, she added, "His Royal Highness was being extremely gracious."

Eyes ahead, Clark waited a beat. "I can order coffee and ask for directions on, like, three hundred different planets."

She squinted at him, against the sun. "Jack of all trades, huh?"

Clark eyed her. She made no attempt to hide her insincerity. Sparkling up at him, she told him, "I'll be right over here. Being luminous."

At the entrance to the tent he stepped to one side to allow her to go ahead first, "Get in here."

They could talk only in brief whispered snatches after that. Inside, out of the heat of the sun, it was dark and there was a pungent aroma of incense. They followed the other guests through a second dividing curtain and into the main area of the tent. It was a cavernous space- at least a hundred feet wide with a small fire burning in the center. Around it guests arranged themselves cross-legged on plush pillows and tasselled cushions in a circle that was already several rows deep. The floor was not bare but carpeted with an overlaid patchwork of intricately-patterned rugs. Lois watched her step, following the heels of the couple in front until the next available space was reached and she and Clark lowered to the floor. Only one or two guests arrived after that and the gathering began to settle.

The atmosphere was solemn and pregnant with expectation. It reminded Lois of those knife-edged moments before a disgraced politician had to enter the pressroom and negotiate the flashbulbed walk to the rostrum. She looked around. On the front row she could see the craggy lines of Sheik Hamid's face modulated by the fire and, sitting either side of him, a woman and two younger men, then, beside them, younger children, two little girls. All wearing matching smiles of pride. Directly opposite them was an empty space, an empty cushion. In the silence, they waited and there was only the crackling of the fire and an occasional faraway tinkling of cattlebells. Suddenly Lois was itching to have a pen and a notebook poised in her hands. When everything was ready a lady wearing a long dark robe that skimmed the floor and covered everything but two shining oval eyes entered the circle and the ceremony began.

As Clark had promised the ceremony was drawn out and long enough to be separated into several distinct parts. But Lois was enthralled. Led by a venerable-looking five-strong council of tribal elders the event itself seemed to be a conscientiously orchestrated concoction of ancient custom and new ritual, and it was conducted entirely in Arabic. Sometimes spoken, sometimes chanted, sometimes accompanied by the syncopated beat of tabla drums, Lois listened out for phrases she recognized and followed it all as much as she could. She took in everything, reveled in the details; the coarse texture of the woolen carpet beneath her fingers, the damask tapestries and drapes hanging down from frames, the adornments of the womens' costumes- gold jewellery, henna tattoos on hands, the charmingly incongruous sight of the odd pair of box fresh sneakers peeking from underneath their robes. The sheer novelty of being here, and of being here with Clark. Once or twice, when they were shifting position in order to get comfortable, her knee or the sensitive underside of her elbow would brush against his and when that happened she would instinctively steal a glance and then find herself looking away when she realized he was doing the same.

When Layla, the sheik's daughter, the new head of the tribe addressed the circle, she offered a last prayer of thanks and it signaled the end of the formalities. The rows of guests stood as one to congratulate her and then headed outside to celebrate.

They emerged into the early evening, but it was already dark in the desert and thousands of tiny needlepoints of light speckled the skies overhead. A series of open fires had been lit and illuminated the area around the main tent. From the fires, and from stalls underneath the awnings of the surrounding tents, the smell of lamb and chicken being cooked and seasoned filled the air.

Pockets of people accumulated around the fires, talking and embracing and drinking out of tiny half shell-sized cups. The council elders drifted over to speak to Clark and Layla came by to introduce herself to Lois. With her she brought the rest of her family- one of the men Lois had seen sitting next to the sheik was her husband, and grasping tight on to his hands were the two small girls, their children. Layla spoke excellent English and as she poured from the long curved spout of a coffee urn, she chatted animatedly with Lois about her time studying for an MBA at their shared alma mater, Met U. They were the same age and Lois was fascinated by the attitude of the other woman, by the way her outlook echoed her father's, and by the way she saw her new status as simply the next inevitable step in a driven and successful business career. Lois learned that although the tribe was not poor and had access to modern communications, they placed self-imposed restrictions on external media and simply prefered a way of life that they, and their forebears, had upheld for millennia.

Once was the food was prepared it was served on large communal plates. Chunks of meat dripping with hot butter and piled on top of mounds of rice and flatbread were served on platters that were so heavy it took two people to bring them out. Smaller wooden bowls were filled with mangoes and dates, yoghurt and cheese. Clark found Lois at a stall being successfully exhorted by one of Sheik Hamid's granddaughters to try olives dipped with honey. Lois agreed they were delicious and offered out the bowl for Clark. He took one, spilling a drip of honey onto his chin before he could catch the whole olive in his mouth. He went to wipe away the dribble with his thumb but missed it and Lois leaned in, grinning, and dabbed him clean with her napkin. The gesture was so easily done and natural, it was over before their eyes locked and she blushed and they stepped apart again.

Later, there was an elaborate firework display followed by everyone dispersing to their own diversions; around one campfire a man recited poetry, around another, they were telling the old stories. Around another, spectators cheered the participants of a sword dance. Around another, Lois clapped along to the fast playing and rhythmic halftones of a traditional music ensemble. When the overlapping beat of drums and the high strings of the violin died down the sound system around the settlement crackled into life and began to play 'The Twist'. Lois had been enjoying the ensemble with Layla's mother. At Lois's look of surprise, she could only shrug and explain, quite seriously, "We like the classics." On cue, Sheik Hamid appeared and proceeded to demonstrate his twisting technique to an appreciative audience.

...

Happy, light-headed from dancing, carrying her heels in her hand, Lois mooched between groups of guests, sharing a word here and there, on the lookout for Clark. She discovered him, jacket off, and cuffs rolled back, surrounded by a crowd of small children, one of whom was wearing Clark's sunglasses. Clark was patiently fulfilling all requests for a pleasure ride that included one circuit of the entire encampment. Folding her arms Lois leaned to rest them against a fencepost and watch. Layla had told her that the tribe rarely used media services like rolling news feeds and satellite television, so perhaps that played a part, but Lois was struck by the way Clark lived here. No hiding, no misdirection, just himself, using his powers out in the open like this. She had never come across it before. The man grinning and joking before them, before these children, could fly. He was so obviously _other_. But he might as well have been a stage magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat; the children were concerned only with the thrill and the pleasure of a magnificent party trick. To Lois, it was wonderful.

From alongside her there was a throaty chuckle. Lois had been joined at the fencepost by an older lady. The lady had lifted her veil to reveal a tied-back plait of white hair and an impish warm smile. With one crooked finger she pointed over to Clark, to where he was crouched down while a little boy was clambering onto his back. A flex of his knees and Clark left the ground. Another chuckle colored her voice as the lady spoke.

Lois smiled widely with her in response. Following Clark's flight path above them, she replied, "Yeah, I guess he is kind of a magic carpet."

The lady's smile turned knowing when she said something else.

Lois nodded. Clark returned to the ground again. She watched him. "Very handsome."

Then the woman gestured towards the ranks of waiting children. Her remark was given as a compliment, a favor, a blessing, but Lois could only agree, "Yes, one day, I think he will," and keep smiling, and with it, mask the pain of her heart folding in on itself.

...

The oasis and the jetty were lit around the edge by the orange glow of paper lanterns that hung and swayed in the air. A low breeze stirred her hair off her shoulders and turned the blades of the turbines slowly, a steady _whumphf-whumphf,_ and carried the sound to her across the water.

Away to her right she could hear the muffled laughter and voices and music of the celebrations as they continued into the night. She was down on the water's edge, dangling her legs, hanging her bare feet off the end of the jetty. Above her, shooting stars moved across the sky. She watched a scratch of lightburst, like the strike of a match, dissect the hanging W of Cassiopeia and extinguish.

A deep voice behind her said, "Hey."

Lois twisted to call over her shoulder, "Hey."

"May I join you?"

"Of course."

She felt his weight on the boardwalk of the decking and heard him padding towards her. "They're wondering where you are, back there."

She smiled to herself, gazing at her knees. "Do they want me to teach them the dance moves to 'Shake a Tail Feather' again?"

Clark chuckled. His jacket and a pair of shoes were flung to the floor and landed on her sandals before he hunkered down next to her, swung his feet over the water and they were side by side. He rested back on his hands too. "Actually, I think they want you to retell that filthy joke about TE Lawrence."

A breathy laugh escaped her. She nodded in agreement, "'If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue', right?"

For a moment or two, they said nothing, just listened to the night noises and admired the prettiness of the reflection of the stars in the water. Then Clark reached over to his other side and lifted something back to show her. "I brought this for you."

It was a four-pack box of beer. Clark extricated a bottle from the packaging and handed it to Lois.

Delighted, she regarded it, turned it in her hands and tilted her head at him, "I thought tonight was dry?"

Clark opened his own bottle. "I slipped one of the nephews a twenty and asked him to direct me to the nearest convenience store."

"We're right on the edge of the Sinai desert," Lois mused. "Very much in the middle of the middle of nowhere." She held up the label of her bottle in order to present him with her evidence; "And this price tag has a euro sign on it?"

Acknowledging the accusatory note in her tone, Clark tucked his chin into his chest as he nodded north. "Nearest convenience store was in Greece."

There was a soft shake of her head while she set her elbows and twisted off the cap. "You know, you keep spoiling me like this, I'm never going to leave."

It was intended as a joke, but they caught each other's gaze at the delicate moment and it fell flat. Clark didn't break eye contact. "I guess we should talk about that."

Lois looked out into the distance. "There's a lot to talk about."

She took a sip, felt him shift. "I know this was kind of an unscheduled stop. I wanted to thank you for coming."

Half-incredulous, she snorted, "Are you kidding? This is the most fun I've had since one of the Alfreds sent me home with a picture of Bruce in front of the Magic Kingdom." She slid Clark a half-lidded glance of confirmation; "Wearing Mickey ears."

"Was he smiling, though?"

She giggled, "Almost!" She spoke down into her bottle before taking another sip, "We teased him about it for weeks."

They settled into quietness again. Clark had his bottle between his knees and his thumbs were fidgeting along the rim. "Can I ask you something?"

Turning her head to him, Lois raised her eyes to meet his.

"Do you always visit Bruce first? When you jump?" When she nodded, he asked, "Why?"

Lois's brow lifted. She had never really thought about it. It had simply turned out that way. She inhaled a long breath and expelled a puff of air through her nose. Finally, she said, "Boils down to three reasons, I guess." She bobbed the neck of her bottle, "Number one; synchronization."

"Synchronization?"

"The lab we operate out of, Emil and I- it's a direct counterpart to the lab I jumped into," the base of the bottle was stubbed in a downwards direction, "here, in your world."

"Both owned by WayneTech?"

"Right. And in exactly the same geographic location." She had raised her index finger off the stem of the bottle to emphasize the point; "_Exactly_. I mean, our version of the building is derelict- or supposed to appear that way. According to public records, Bruce shut it down after the inauguration."

"And in reality?"

A small smile twitched at her lips, "We're there, in the basement, hidden away."

"But the alternative versions-"

"Are always in use." Her fingers found and picked up the discs of their discarded bottle caps. She held one up. "Early on, we discovered that there is a geo-spatial relationship between the jumps. The interfield that the device creates between the two worlds is anchored, fixed, as a physical location, in a corresponding point of time and space. Wherever we jump from here," Lois placed the first cap on the decking between them, "dictates where we materialize," she held up and placed the second cap neatly on top, "here."

Clark was blinking, as if seeing the world for the first time. "You're talking about quantum mechanics behaving within Newtonian law."

Agreeing, she nodded lightly. "Emil calls it 'Synchronization'."

"Unified theorists would have a field day."

He was smiling at her. She returned a grin that dimpled her cheeks. "He very much sees it as the first of many ironic indignities of our world that he can't publish a paper."

"So why Bruce's lab in the first place?"

Lois pointed again with her finger, "That's number two; expedience." She explained, "At first, we experimented- we hauled everything up to the fortress and I jumped from there. We tried a few times jumping directly from your old apartment. Another few times, I jumped onto the roofs of buildings close to the Planet and just cold-called Lois. Guerilla stuff, you know? "

His head moved side to side. "Didn't work out?"

"Meeting the other Loises," she stopped short, gazed into the middle distance, picked her words, "took up a lot of time. The strangeness of coming face to face with another version of yourself..." She trailed off. Her head bobbed as she recalled past escapades, "The fortress was a hassle, logistically. And you were never still living in your apartment, it was always a new tenant." As if it was him that was personally responsible for the inconvenience, she made a V with her first two fingers and admonished, "Twice, I gave two different versions of the same sweet old lady the fright of her life."

"Lives."

She laughed and beamed at him. "Exactly." Her bottle nudged in the air, "On our side, the lab is a secure Metropolis location- one of the few. And on the other sides, we found that WayneTech employees were more likely to react favorably towards an event horizon occurring in their workplace, more inclined to getting their boss on the phone when I asked." Another cheeky glint flashed across her eyes; "Less prone to fainting face first into their game of clock patience."

"You materialize in the same lab, the same room, every time?"

Her head bowed. "We've sort of settled into a routine that works. I jump; the lab's usually manned- technicians, scientists, security. If not, it soon is and I can get in touch with Bruce pretty quickly. Bruce, Diana, the others. They provide a good buffer zone to prepare you and Lois." She shrugged. "It's efficient."

"Like what happened earlier today?"

She nodded. He was looking down, into his beer. She could see he was frowning.

"How do you know it's always going to be that way? How do you know you're not going to jump into some world where," his fingers spread as he lifted an open palm into the air, "there's no Bruce? The building's there, but it's run by LexCorp. It's hostile."

Again, Lois sat and for a few seconds deliberated an answer. "You asked me earlier about whether there was any structure to the system, to the process-" she found his eyes, "there isn't- we can't control the jumps. But there do seem to be other patterns." She opened a hand to him, "Certain things repeat. Certain things are present and consistent in every version." Her fingers waggled, "Stuff might be changed up a little bit, but they're still there- like markers, in a genetic code. That's reason number three."

He was scrutinizing her with his eyes. "Universal constants?"

She tipped her head, 'right'. "So, so far, the sky's always blue. The sun always rises." The hand holding her beer motioned to the stars in a looped gesture, "The moon orbits the Earth." Her lips rolled inwards; "Dinosaurs existed, Congress signed the Declaration, Einstein wrote about special relativity." One hand flattened out on an invisible shelf, "The big stuff is still the bedrock. But there are differences- the in-between details change. The same people contest elections- _but,_ sometimes the other guy wins. Their biggest hits might be different, whichever record went to number one, which albums went platinum, the order the albums were released; but there's always an Elvis, a Ray Charles," she thumbed back to the party, "a Chubby Checker. Cultural, historical, social commonalities. Touchstones that seem to underpin it all."

"Like a genetic code?"

She contemplated the bottle in her hand. "There's always a Bruce. He's always a good guy. Always an ally." Her eyebrow raised to him. "He's a marker."

"And what about us?"

"Us?"

He was gazing at her with a focus that she was unused to. "Back at the mansion. You said there's always a you and always a me." His eyelids fluttered a couple of times, "And that we're always,"

To have to say the word again, she understood it was an act of courage, for them both, "- Involved."

Clark said, "We're markers, too."

With some effort, she managed, "Yes."

This time he did look away and Lois was relieved that she could reclaim some clear-eyed composure, but he seemed unhappy. "Why us?" He turned back to her, "Why did we go through that, and not the others?"

Gently, sadly, she told him, "I wondered about that, too. What was different? What was changed? I have a theory," in the dark she smiled a small half-smile to herself, "it's only a theory." She released a sigh. "I asked your Bruce. If your Luthor had ever found a second meteor site of Kryptonite?"

His eyes were narrowed. "The other worlds- they don't have the second site?"

"The other Clarks, the other JLAs, they make a point of checking for me. They scour the planet."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing, so far. Just the piece that was recovered in Addis Ababa. There's nothing else. Luthor never gets the chance to power the trap."

Clark's eyes creased at the corner, "All this because a chunk of rock fell off in the wrong place?" But his anger was hollow and there was warmth and a healthy sense of the hard luck of it all in his incredulity.

Lois said nothing, her eyes gleaming with apology, sympathy, understanding, all in one. Simply, she offered, "It wasn't our fault."

They fell back with their beers into silences that felt separate and after a while Lois was not sure what to say. So it wrong-footed her when Clark asked, "Which one's your favorite?"

Lost, she glanced over, "Favorite what?"

He was staring out. "World. Alternate reality. Parallel universe." His face was so serious, and he used these terms, these ridiculous concepts, so comfortably, so in stride, she couldn't help but smile. He blinked. "So far?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. She sat a little straighter. "I don't think I have one."

She felt him turn to her. She didn't see but she sensed she was being baited with a skeptical raise of an eyebrow. As a concession, to humor him, and to be more accurate, she enquired, "My favorite version of the whole thing, or my favorite version of you?"

His tone was low and twinkly. "Same difference, right?"

He was shameless. "I don't have one."

They faced each other. She countered his disbelieving expression with an unwavering 'Come on' face of her own. She insisted, "It's impossible, it's like," a free hand swished up, "choosing a favorite Beatles record."

His look was suspicious, "People always say that, but it turns out they always do have a favorite, it just depends on their mood."

"Right!"

"All these variations- and there's not a single version that stands out?"

She fired back, "The you that had a mustache."

Adorably, his eyes widened and he exclaimed, "A mustache! I had a mustache?"

He didn't make it to ask how that would work before she cut him off- "No."

Wounded, his head dropped to one side.

Lois released a heavy, put-upon sigh, dabbed her thumbs at the bottle rim while she thought. Eventually, hesitantly, she told him, "There was one world. About a year ago. Jump number four-fifty, something like that. It turned out that this particular Clark still hadn't told his Lois."

Clark lifted his chin, took that in. "How long-?"

"Five years, just about," Lois provided, immediately. "Partners at the Planet. Side-by-side. Every day."

His neck crooked, "Long time."

When she spoke, she spoke carefully, remembering, "It was the first instance, the only instance, where I'd come across a Lois that didn't know." She felt his attention on her. "The first time that I jumped, world number one, to discover this other reality existed; a reality where Lois not only knew but," the smile lit up her face, "was part of it- it was a revelation. And then the next jump, and the next jump, and the next world, and the next world- it was the same. And they all had similar stories. Sometimes, it was just a year, sometimes two, sometimes three- but never more than that- Clark told her. Or Lois figured it out." Her head bobbled in the air, "Sometimes, it was a little bit of both." She stumped the bottle down on the deck between them, like she was placing a chess piece, "But it had always happened, that was always their history. And they were always so matter of fact about it, like this was simply the obvious way to live their lives, and they couldn't imagine anything else." She made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "It was," she scraped her bottom lip with her teeth, "pretty amazing. And, I guess, every time that I jumped, I started to take it for granted that that was just the way things were supposed to be."

Clark brought her back. "Until this guy."

She nodded.

"So what was the deal? Why hadn't he told her?"

Her empty hand lifted and dropped back to her side like she couldn't give him an easy answer. "He'd tried. As Clark, as Superman. Romantic dates, night flights. Those lamplit moments, alone, late at the Planet. Those big moments, endorphins flying about the place, when he'd just whisked her out of some exploding catastrophe or other. He had this long list of nearlies, almosts, near-misses. Near-perfect moments-" there was a quick quiver of her head, "ruined, interrupted, sabotaged; either by some outside emergency. Or his own trepidation."

Beside her, Clark's head ducked.

"They were so tangled up. Just dancing around each other. And the more time went on, the longer they knew each other, the harder it became. The stakes were raised, you know? A lot was riding on it. They were colleagues, desk buddies, a successful writing team, confidantes- best friends," she pushed her bottle in the air, "but trapped. Caught in this limbo of not moving forward, but totally and secretly besotted with each other." She tucked her head and gave a small sideways glance- "I mean it was heartbreaking, but it was kind of sweet." Her shoulders lifted up and down. "I stayed a whole night with him, listening, talking. Forgetting why I was there in the first place. In the morning, before work, he flew to her. Told her." A beatific and satisfied grin had worked itself into place.

"Just like that?"

The smile faded away in degrees. It was replaced by a faraway, stoic expression that looked out, considering the landscape and the stars. "When I arrive into their lives. The other Lois and Clarks. Usually, it's the opposite of that." Her voice became remote. "For me, I see a rainbow kaleidoscope of possibilities I never had. For them, I'm like a dark mirror. Held up and reflecting back their worst nightmare." She regarded Clark, met his eyes. "Usually, I'm a cautionary tale." If she had been expecting to see pity there, she didn't find it. Instead, his gaze was open and filled with something else. Her mouth curled at one corner and into a wry smile, "For once, it was nice to be able to fix something. To get their world back on track."

"So tell me. What's the plan?"

Puzzled, her eyes narrowed at him.

"To get your world back on track?"

Purposefully, she held him there. "First, I wanted to ask you about something?"

Off his careful look, she said only, "The Lois Lane Institute." She watched him closely, wanting to see his reaction. There was not much of one, but what reaction there was, was not unlike someone being caught.

"You've heard people talking about that, huh?"

Her head nodded towards the party. "Only in passing. But, I must say, in glowing terms."

"What do you want to know?"

He definitely looked uncomfortable. She wondered at it. "The traditional stuff. All the Ws?"

"It's a foundation I started. For good works."

It was a condensed kind of answer to a straightforward question. When he wasn't more forthcoming, she rolled her head on her neck. "And?"

"And?"

"Why?"

Suddenly he became more interested in his knees where he had the beer bottle between his hands. The timbre in his voice was soft and moderated, "Lois. After you died, in the aftermath of that, I didn't deal with things very well." Now he looked at her and once more she was aware of an intensity in his gaze. "I didn't show up back for work."

Concern pinched the middle of her brow together. "At the Planet?"

Light caught in his eyes. There was almost a chuckle. "No, not just at the Planet." The corner of the label he was worrying at scraped away a little from the glass. "I was so angry," she saw him shrug, "with the world. With myself. I could barely see straight. I couldn't stand the unfairness. After everything I'd done; to lose you. The only..." The bottom of his jaw was moving as he tempered himself, bit it all back down. "I mourned you. Publicly, openly," a mournful smile played on his lips and an eyebrow twitched; "loudly." He leaned in a little, "Not very heroic."

She smiled back at him, to show him she understood.

"That line between what was secret and what was not, what I kept from the world, what I didn't- it blurred and then it disappeared. And I didn't care." He looked up and away to stare out again. "And I think it shocked people. Once the funeral was over I went back to the farm to see my mom, and then I went north and I stayed there."

"To the fortress?"

He nodded.

"What did you do?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." His eyelids fluttered and caught at the memory of it. "I dragged myself around in a pair of baggy sweat pants for a couple of days. Didn't shave, didn't eat, I read depressing Victorian poetry."

Her eyes were wet but they danced at him. "How depressing?"

"I memorized Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'."

Lois said nothing but her lips rolled and her eyes creased around the edges.

He inclined his head at her, 'Exactly', before swishing something off his knee. "I felt thoroughly sorry for myself."

"And after that?"

"After that," he frowned at the horizon, "I decided I was going to get you back."

She stared at him, thinking she must have misheard, a look of incomprehension darkening her face.

Clark explained, "From the fortress I accessed the Advanced Physics research and development files of every major institute and program in the world; Harvard, Stanford, MIT, Caltech. Oxford, Cambridge, NASA, ETH, the SJTU, CSIRO, CERN, the Royal Society, the Institut de France, the ICSU." He gestured that he could go on. "I studied them, analyzed them, became expert. I reactivated all of my father's memory crystals, went through them again and again, relearned the Science archive off by heart. I was convinced that if I could combine hardware from Earth with Kryptonian technology," he stopped to find her eyes, and then made a swirling motion with his index finger, "I could warp the gravitational field to create a wormhole."

She understood the implications. But she was still taken aback. "Time travel."

"I was obsessed. Relentless. For a year, I worked day and night, formulating equations, running models, building micro-scale prototypes;" he allowed a shadowy smile, more than aware of the preposterousness, the audacity, "just trying to get the math to stand up under the weight of its own theory." He chewed on the edge of his lip. "Eventually I was ready to show the others my notes."

"The league?"

His eyebrows lifted in affirmation. "Bruce thought I was crazy. They all did, but I think they had reached the point where allowing the craziness out into the air was an improvement on watching me fester away with it in the dark." His hand swept through the air, his voice and manner fortified by past conviction, "As far as I was concerned, the theory was sound- I just needed the materials to build the thing. A project lab was established at the WayneTech building in Metropolis, a select team of experts were placed at my disposal, and within three months the construction phase was complete."

"I was in the lab," Lois told him. "I saw the blueprints." They looked at each other. "The project was abandoned?"

A beat. "Yes."

"It didn't work?"

Clark looked like he was about to say something else but instead there was a pause and he a gave a quiet, clipped, "No."

Moved, she breathed, "I'm sorry."

He sighed and smiled that it was okay. "And that was that. I had to go on without you." Light and lightness started to come back into his eyes. "I prepared to re-enter respectable society."

"That must have been hard."

One shoulder lifted and dropped, "I had outed myself as Superman. There was no hiding place anymore. Not for a normal life. I mean my mom had asked the media to respect our privacy," he tipped his head to her, "and they had, and Perry offered me my old job back- but I think all three of us knew that picking up where I left off in either Smallville or at the Planet was," there was a tiny shake of his head, a sucked inhalation of breath, "out of the question. I couldn't go back to the way things had been, as if nothing had happened."

"What did you want to do?"

He huffed out a sigh, "I didn't know. I had no idea. I guess I figured I'd deal with a day at a time." He swayed where he sat, "I'd spent a year out of commission. I prepared myself for public reaction- opprobrium, condemnation, contempt, intrusion, pity, fear." He stopped, became pensive. "And it was the strangest thing;" worry lines crumpled his brow, as if he still didn't quite understand, "I was welcomed. Like family. By everyone. Neighbors, strangers in the street, anyone I met."

She shone at him, "The prodigal son."

"It was like someone had flipped a switch somewhere and, suddenly, I was not above them, apart from them, outside of them. I was just a kid, hurt and grieving after a great personal tragedy, and the world had been witness to the grief, and it resonated- in a fundamental, human way. I had changed. And the world had changed, too."

Her voice was husky. "Sounds incredible."

He eyed her, like that was not the biggest part. "All the time I'd been gone, all those months, still, people were donating money."

Lois looked blank. "Money? To who?"

"To me. To Clark, to Superman."

"What for?"

His lips pursed and he shrugged. "As recompense? Reparation? Memorial contributions? People paying their respects?" He shook his head, laughed a little, "To say sorry? In overwhelming numbers. From all over the world. Huge checks with nine zeros from big business. Little kids sending their allowance. It was pouring in." He set his bottle down and rested back on his hands. "Representatives from the government, from the United Nations, and from the IMF came to see me. They'd organized a central account. There was about fifty trillion dollars in there, and it was rising all the time, and they wanted to know what I wanted to do with it."

Lois blinked. "Wow."

He returned her disbelieving expression, "More or less what I said."

"What did you do?"

His head cocked to his shoulder, "I took a good look around. Held meetings with experts, talked to Bruce and the others, and we tried to come up with the best way to use this incredible resource. Finally, I settled on establishing an institute that would be international, politically neutral, and open to solicitation to all, with the sole purpose of benefiting the world and everyone on it." He watched her and his look dared her to say something flip.

For effect, she waited. "Nothing too ambitious, then?"

They beamed the broadest grins at each other. "The institute has one bureau on every major continent, and the administration and staffing of those bureaus are the only financial streams out of the organization that do not directly relate to charitable donations. The rest of the money is allocated on a case-to-case basis to whomever petitions for it. It's an open door policy, with the only proviso that support can't disappear into a black hole. We've got a pretty good record and a lot of the initiatives make money, but chances of success or failure don't matter- funded projects, however big or small, must only demonstrate that they have a defined goal. The bureaus work in partnerships with local NPOs, NGOs, charities, education programs, relief efforts, governments. Anyone who wants help."

She had been listening carefully and attentively. She said, "And what do you do?"

There was a crooked smile. "I'm the CEO, basically. Mainly, I act as an ambassador. A facilitator, an honest broker. I can mediate to get things done- quickly. That means people can see results, quickly."

She was more than impressed, but something nagged at her. "What about everything else? I mean, do you ever," she squinted and didn't finish, not sure how to phrase it.

He knew what she had been thinking, and he looked amused, "Rescue a cat, for old times' sake?"

She bowed her head, thank you.

For a moment, Clark was quiet, choosing his words. "While I was gone, there was a lot of talk, a lot of soul-searching, a lot of fear that society might," he tried for the right term, "_regress_. Instead, crime rates stabilized. Across the board. They found a natural level that was slightly worse than when I was active, but better than before, and better than anyone predicted." He tucked one shoulder, "I still pitch in when the JLA needs it. But the truth is something happened when I gave up the hero in a costume. I looked differently at the world, and the world looked differently back, and they wanted it to be _better_." She could see fire animating his eyes, "As we speak, anti-malaria vaccines are halving the global death toll, the hole in the ozone layer is repairing itself, the ice caps are getting bigger, the list of political prisoners is getting shorter. An emphasis on wealth distribution, access to education, scientific innovation is creating opportunities, equality, fairness." He stopped midflow as if to check himself. "It's not perfect, it never will be- there's still disease, self-interest, corruption-" a sidelong glance sparkled, "all the things that are a unique and enriching part of the human experience." He looked at her, "But it's happening. There's a recognition and a consensus at the hightables that the right to some quality of life, for everyone, is... inarguable. "

Lois was awed by the magnitude of it. "Clark. I don't know what to say. It's incredible."

An eyebrow flicked up as he looked away, almost embarrassed. "It is what it is. I was the right guy, in the right place, at the right time."

More thickly than she had wanted to sound, she said, "Your mother must've been so proud."

"What about you?" He turned the tables with a warm grin, "Single-handedly saving the world?"

Like him, she shied away from herself. "I didn't have too many options."

A low hum was directed at her, like he was not sure that that was true. "Why do you do it?"

She forced a breath out through a small gap in her lips. "Because, one day, somehow, I have faith that things will be better." She blinked, serenely, at him. "Same as you, I guess."

Silence crept in and around them once more and in that gap Lois became aware that she was not sure how much she believed that anymore. She hoped that he couldn't tell.

"So, tell me the truth," he addressed the water. "I created the largest and most influential aid organization that's ever existed, and I named it after you." His gaze fell on her, solemn and earnest. "Creeped out or flattered?"

She snorted out a laugh that echoed into the night, and they cracked wide grins at each other, "Definitely splitting the difference."

His expression turned concerned, "I was afraid you were going to say that. Now I'm wondering whether to admit I still talk to you. Out loud."

Her bottle was held up in a Viking toast of solidarity- "I still talk to you."

"At the cemetery."

"Oh." Her look of surprise suggested he was right to wonder. "Do you visit often?"

He rolled his lips. "Every day." His brow lowered as he quickly explained, "I promise it's not like a weird ...shrine. Although I think Diana worries."

She chuckled softly that that wasn't it; "I feel kind of bad. I hardly ever visit you."

"Oh."

"There's a bronze statue. In the park. People can go, lay flowers, light candles. It's a little risky for me during daylight hours. At night, there's a curfew."

"I'm surprised there's a statue at all." Clark said. "Your Luthor must have more magnanimity than I would ever give him credit for."

"No, no, it's totally self-serving," she corrected. "He knows that even away from any kind of official opposition there's a dangerous level of support for Superman." She was grinning, "People wear t shirts, bands, have these little S-shield tattoos that they keep covered. His very public posthumous honoring of you is supposed to be a sign of his goodwill, but it's a safety valve."

"Still," Clark said, dryly, "a bronze statue?"

"He took a couple of inches off your height," she told him, evenly. "Resized ...some other areas."

"Jerk."

They were both smiling. She looked away. "I guess that _is_ kind of a shrine," she mused. "I'd like to visit more." Her smile faded at the edges, "When you don't officially exist it kind of cramps your style."

"That must be hard."

"My choice."

They found each other's eyes again and she watched him. He didn't look happy with her. "Where was the last fun place you went to? For fun?"

She gazed away in thought. A little helpless, she said, "I don't remember. Emil took me to a bar for my thirtieth two years ago."

"No, I mean, like, a proper trip? Like you had to pack a toothbrush?"

Again, her brow furrowed. "I don't remember. It would've been," her hand moved off her bottle, "before everything."

Tenderly, Clark said, "So where would you like to go? In the world?"

"Oh," she sighed, dramatically, "lots of places."

"Anywhere specific?"

She did a double take when she caught his eye. "Now?"

"Yes."

There was a nervous laugh that died away. "Right now?"

Clark pointed to his left, "London." His finger tracked right, "Paris, Rome." He looked at her, "Agra's not too far from here; you could see the Taj Mahal by moonlight? I hear watching the sun rise over Mount Fiji is quite nice this time of year?"

She observed him while he talked. This combination of the fantastic and the humble, the heady and the sincere. His total lack of swagger or boastfulness. And he had, had never had, any idea how unlikely that was, how alluring it made him. In the end, troubled, Lois was forced to conclude, "You are serious."

"Yes."

She spent a long time considering it. Finally she looked back from the stars. She said, "There is one place I'd like to see."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

They landed just in front of the french doors. He slipped his hands from around the agonizing dip and curve of her waist, felt the feather-touch of her fingers as they unlaced themselves at the base of his neck and withdrew, running outwards over the top of his jacket collar and across his shoulders. He watched her walk away. She stopped, glanced around, her eyes scanned the terrace, lingering on the chipped lip of an empty planter here, the unkempt overflowering of a hanging basket there. The patio table and two chairs, once clean and pristine. Now dirty white and stacked sensibly in the corner.

A breeze rustled through a wooden lattice thickly strewn with honeysuckle and stirred up the familiar scent. He saw her breathe it in, savoring it. She wandered across, out to her balcony, played the tips of her fingers along the rough brick sill of its span. Advancing and receding noises of traffic drifted up from the street as she surveyed the scene before her, the hues of the blues and grays of twilight falling in between the towers and blocks of Metropolis.

"Well," she said, retrieving the locks of hair that the wind had pushed across her face and tucking them delicately behind her ear. "That view hasn't changed." She turned from it to address the apartment. She leaned back, comfortable against the balcony wall. City lights caught at her necklace, reflected in her eyes. "I can't believe this is all still here?"

Clark looked too. He remembered a time when her doors and windows were propped open and burned brightly with promise and welcome. They were blank now, closed up, shuttered away. "I can't believe it's been seven years."

Her gaze seemed to be tracing the lines and shapes of the architecture of the apartment, studying it, memorizing it, like a visitor to a foreign place not sure when they'll get the chance again. "I've never been back." Her eyes darted, her bottom lip curled at him, "Do you ever...?"

She allowed the question to hang. He shook his head slowly, no.

She stared ahead into the darkness and the shadows behind the panes of glass, a new question making her frown. "Why'd you keep it?"

"A promise to Sam," he told her. He nodded forward. "There're pictures, personal things. Awards, letters, notebooks, all packed away in boxes. He cleaned out your files, your closets. Unhooked your computer. He got that far." Clark searched out her eyes, found them, held them, "He couldn't quite give you all the way up."

She looked away and nodded, barely. She became very still. "I've visited lots of worlds where he's been dead. But I hate to think of what he had to go through."

They were joined by a reflective silence.

"Was he alone, at the end?"

Clark shook his head. "I was with him. And Perry." He saw that this affected her, saw the amusement and disbelief that undercut the sorrow and triggered the twitch in her eyebrows. His eyes gleamed in agreement, "They ended up quite close."

Lois swallowed and nodded. "Before. Did you ever come here?" Long lashes blinked slowly. "To see her?"

Clark nodded.

Her eyes were moving again, all over the terrace. An expression close to fondness crept into them and hovered at the edges of her mouth. Her lips touched together. "This is where I fell in love with you." Her gaze was directed at him and it was steady until, as if catching herself, her eyelids flickered and, on a breath, she corrected, "Him."

Too late. It was all too late. He was losing himself in her, he could feel it. "I remember."

"I wish that I had told him."

"He knew."

"Did he?"

His look was steely but his eyes twinkled. "I speak with the unassailable and unilateral authority of Clark Kents everywhere."

It teased out a gentle amused shake of her head. She shifted, crossed her legs at the ankle. Then her eyes narrowed. "How long did you know each other?"

A sigh that was tremulous was delivered into the night. "Seventeen months, one week," the start of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth; "two days."

She reflected back his expression, the wryness, "Eleven hours."

"Thirty-three minutes." Now his smile was unbridled and infectious.

She matched it, "But who's counting?"

His brow leveled and the strength of his grin started to weaken and fade, but it didn't disappear completely. It became colored, not by memory but by something else that was closer to the surface and more urgent. He said, "Long enough to know her favorite color, her favorite movie, her favorite ice cream flavor."

Lois broke into a sympathetic kind of smile- not out of commiseration, Clark understood. Out of recognition.

His eyes shone. "Long enough to find out that she loved all-night liquor stores, reading true crime novels, nursing petty grudges, and loudly singing along to the key change in selected eighties power ballads-"

Listening to him had turned her eyes wet and glassy. But she couldn't help it, she laughed.

"but that she _hated_ waking up late, litter left near trash cans, apathy, incompetence, interviewees hitting on her, and snack food that crumbles easily." He pressed on with a soft, insistent, mesmerizing tone. "Long enough to know that she was indifferent to property law, conventional attitudes to personal safety, and politicians. And that she held a deep-seated and abiding distrust of people who don't consume any form of caffeine."

When Lois spoke, her voice was scratchy, "I always think they must be hiding something, right?"

He continued to gaze at her. He was not sure that he could've stopped even if she had asked. "Long enough to discover that she subdivided all her perfume into two categories; everyday use, and special occasions, and that she adored browsing in bookstores, her 1962 Underwood touch-master, and novelty cigarette cases, but that she couldn't stand wilful ignorance, and people writing it down as 'Lame', and the person in line, directly in front of you, that somehow takes twice as long as everybody else."

Lois gulped in a breath. It made her shoulders move. He swallowed, unable to take his eyes off her. "Long enough to know that she had a weakness for clever advertising, string quartets in the street, and movie theater popcorn, and that, despite her best efforts at disguising it, she was the least cynical person I ever met." He stopped, hesitated. His eyebrows lifted a little. For the first time, his voice faltered, "But not quite long enough to tell her that I really didn't mind when she stole my last french fry, or when she showed up at my door at three in the morning because she had a new angle that couldn't wait, or when she made a point of teasing me that I was the second best man she ever knew- but only because I couldn't fly."

Lois laughed again, a snatched, gasped laugh and the tears that had been gathering and obscuring the bottom rims of her eyes began to escape down the side of her cheeks.

A half-cocked expression, tender and sad, and brimming with warmth wondered at her, "Not quite long enough to tell her I didn't mind, because I could fly too, and flying with her made my soul light, and from the moment we met it didn't make a difference to me what perfume she wore, everyday use, special occasions, or none at all, because the nearness of her made it difficult for me to concentrate anyway." He was forced to pause. "Not quite long enough to tell her that the beat of her heart was as recognizable and as necessary to me as my own, and I found comfort in it, and I never realized how much I needed it until it was taken away from me."

The wet pathways of tears glistened where light reflected. She had been biting down on her bottom lip. Her teeth scraped over it. Lois caught her breath. "What happened that night?"

Now he glanced away. Took his time. Back then, afterwards, they had wanted him to see somebody. They had arranged it because they thought it might help. He had known instinctively that he was beyond the reach and solace that words, however expertly dispensed, could offer and, in the end, he had not been able to bring himself to go. Not even out of courtesy. He had never talked about it, never spoken of it, but he remembered it all and he remembered it easily.

Along a strip of sky where the horizon met the skyline, the light was dimming. "It was a regular evening at work. A Wednesday. Nothing special. Quiet. The office was empty, just us." His hands dug into his pockets as he gazed out over the city. "Sometimes, we had the scanner on on nights like that, like background music or something," a short laugh was exhaled and they shared a confirming, nerdy, look of communion. "It had rained all day, I remember that. We'd both filed our pieces for the early edition." He looked down at the floor, thoughtfully scuffed the toe of one shoe in a line, told the shoe, "We could've gone home but I guess we stayed behind anyway."

"Working on the Luthor jail break story."

His eyes flicked to hers at the uninflected interjection, framed as statement, not question, "Right. We'd been chipping away at it for months, ever since he'd been gone, just trying to dig up something new." He shrugged, "The trail was cold. The police had nothing. No one cared. I think people thought he was never going to come back." Clark frowned, then his forehead smoothed. "Or maybe that was just easier? I don't know."

"And then the scanner-"

"Has this report. A bald man seen breaking into an abandoned warehouse on the East docks. The report says-"

"There's a small child with him."

"I should've known then." Clark stared out. The frown had returned, was deeper. "Kidnapping kids? It was just-"

"Too perfect," she supplied. "You went after him."

"It was late," Clark said. "I told Lois to ignore the report and that I was calling it a night. I was nearly running through the newsroom." One eyebrow arched, "I think she thought I was trying to scoop her."

Her eyes were still watery but it provoked a small breathy laugh, "I did."

"I found the warehouse easily, one of the old merchant buildings on the river. It looked a real mess; door boarded up, broken glass, chunks of masonry, roof tiles missing. It was in total darkness but the roof had a set of skylights and one was open so I flew right in." His gaze was fixed. "I flew right in." His eyes refocused on hers, "Then light was everywhere. Bright light. The whole place was illuminated. Outside, it looked as though the building was about to collapse; inside, it was..."

"Immaculate."

"The walls were covered in white tiles, every inch. There was metal tubing, pipes, cables, computer screens."

"A secret lab."

"In the center of the room, there was this circular podium, five, six inches off the floor. And there, balled up, in the middle of it, crying for help, was a little girl. I flew to her and even before I got there, I knew it was a mistake. I reached out and she just disappeared. Blinked away. My hand went through where she should've been. A trick."

Lois' eyes were black. "A trap."

"My feet were already off the floor, gone, but I was stopped dead and yanked back down, caught in a shaft of bright green light, encased, like a bug in a jar." His expression leavened, became inward, "I could barely move, I'd never felt anything like it, never seen it used like this before, but I knew what it was." Clark's lips twisted into a grimace. "I heard him laughing. He was above me, standing behind some kind of control deck. He told me I was predictable which was the difference between us." His lips quirked, almost into a smile, "I told him I could probably think of a couple more things. We argued for a while." Clark cast a glance to the side, "Well, he talked at me. All the things we could accomplish if only we worked together. The usual stuff. I was feeling pretty good, considering. I kept still, as still as possible, conserving energy. I was adjusting my body to the weakness and thinking if I really went for it, if I picked my moment, took him by surprise, I could launch myself free of the hold of the beam and destroy the podium. He told me we could rule the world and I told him to go to hell, and then he turned up the strength." Clark's voice softened, and his eyes glazed, "I dropped to my knees and I think I must have yelled out, and that's when I saw you. Crouching, inside the door. Saw you staring at Luthor." His jaw worked, and when he spoke next, his tone was laced with exertion. "Saw why you were staring. Saw you halfway across the room, running at me. Saw the pistol in his hand and him pulling the trigger, oblivious." His eyes closed then opened again. "I knew what was going to happen. I screamed at you to stop, but you never did listen."

She nearly managed to smile but it was a facsimile, hamstrung and weak.

Out loud, but remotely, as if to himself, Clark recounted, "I can remember the sound of your breathing, shallow and fast because you were sprinting. I can remember the sound of your feet pounding against concrete. I can remember the determination on your face." Then he looked lost, as if it was the single detail that still bothered him most; "But I can't remember hearing the shots. I caught her when she fell. Held her as she died in my arms."

It was a few moments before Lois said anything. She said only, "On my world, I saw him shoot you. I was too late."

He stared at her. His voice was thick, "No, you weren't."

"She wouldn't have changed it. Given the choice, she would've preferred that it was her. She wouldn't have changed anything." She was unbowed.

"How can you know that?"

There was a beat. A look flickered across her eyes. "I speak with the unassailable and unilateral authority of Lois Lanes everywhere."

Their gazes remained locked. "I guess we always did disagree on some of the finer points."

"What happened to Luthor?"

"She made me swear I wouldn't kill him. She was fighting for air but she made me swear it." His eyes were bright again as they marveled at her, "So I didn't touch him. Maybe that would've been better for him? He was distraught. In shock. I don't think he could believe what had happened. He didn't try to escape. The police, the feds, the SCU showed up, took him into custody. I haven't seen him since."

"Is he on Stryker's?"

Clark shook his head, "Arkham." His eyes drifted back to the horizon. "I never said anything, but Bruce took care of it all; the trial, the media." She nodded. He explained, "I don't think I could've handled him in the city. Anywhere near you."

"What happened to the device? The Kryptonite forcefield?"

"It was destroyed. The apparatus was incinerated, immediately."

"By who?"

"By me."

She laughed, it was curt and humorless.

"What?"

She moved her hands off the balcony wall, clasped them in front of her, and bobbed them against her lap. "We stole it. A couple of weeks later. A break-in at LexCorp's highest security facility. Our first big tactical victory. Emil converted the Kryptonite, neutralized it, harnessed it. The device generates enormous levels of contained power. The equivalent of one hundred gigatons, at full capacity."

Understanding passed over Clark's face. "That's how you jump?"

"Your world and my world. So much the same." Her tone was pensive. The middle of her forehead knotted, "And then two such different paths."

The look he gave her was stern and equally resolute. "This is _our _path. We need to talk about what happens now."

She gazed back at him. In the twilight her dark eyes were clear and piercing. He found her so beautiful, it was physically painful to behold her. "This is where our paths separate."

In the seconds that followed he was certain he had misheard. "What?"

She pushed herself off the wall, stood up straight. "I don't think you should come back with me afterall." She remained placid, unwavering, as if, subsequent to all the circling, they had reached the obvious and appropriate conclusion. "I've had time to consider it and I don't think it's a good idea."

It was apparent to Clark that either he had spent the day entirely mistaking her intentions, or he was missing something monumentally big. He frowned, "You don't want my help?"

"It's not a question of that."

His smile didn't remove the frown, "I don't understand."

Her hands clenched into fists and her bottom lip moved, the tiniest quiver, but they were the only signs, the sole tip-offs, that she was in difficulty. Finally, she said, "There's something I've not told you. About the technology." Her throat bobbed. "There's a drawback. Quite a big one." Her eyelids fluttered, briefly- as if in those seconds and by will and the act of blinking alone, she had staved off despair and dragged herself back to composure and poise. "We've tried and we can't return. We can't go back to a reality we've already visited and we don't know why." Her forearm lifted from the elbow to gesture futilely with the wristband before she dropped it back to her side; "Emil's working on it- maybe one day." Her lips rolled and stretched. "But it'll be years. Probably decades." Her chin tilted. She was breathing hard out of her nostrils, waiting for his reaction.

He still looked quite stern. But other than that, Clark's expression had not altered. "This mission to defeat Luthor. It's kind of a one-way ticket deal?"

She nodded. The line of her jaw tightened. "You'd be trapped on my world." She paused for emphasis, "Indefinitely." The words seemed to carry the dread and inevitability of the type of disappointment born of experience. She said it like a judge passing sentence, full of portent and weight and the sense of a heavy door being slammed shut.

Clark could only shrug. "I figured."

The shadow lifted from Lois's face. "What?"

He looked at her, if not unconcerned, then second-handedly insulted, "Eight hundred worlds and you're still jumping? None of the other Clarks helped."

In mitigation, pained, Lois explained, "They wanted to. They had a lot to lose."

His look was defiant. "It's different for me."

Her expression clouded as if he might be insane. "No, it's not. This world- what you've done?" She stepped forward, her eyes wide and imploring, "It's- it's amazing. Because of you."

"I've made my decision."

Her eyes blazed. There was a visible setting of her shoulders, a change in the way she was carrying herself. A hardening of her position. "I haven't given you any options, yet."

He wasn't backing down, either. "From where I'm standing, my options seem pretty cut and dried."

"From where you're standing it must all seem very simple."

He echoed her tone, "Yes."

She turned and stalked away, shaking her head.

She appeared cross. Clark was mystified by it. "Are you angry?"

Her head tipped to the sky and he heard her say, "You're so full of yourself." It was not an accusation. It sounded faint-hearted, a lament.

"I'm not sure what the problem is?"

Her hands were on her hips. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"And that's my fault?" he spat.

She spun on her heels, leaned in, and in a controlled, thin, tone informed him, "I uphold, and I handle the responsibilities placed on me to the very best of my ability, and exactly as I see fit, and you have no right to question that."

His eyes shut and his hands raised in a gesture that moved towards apology. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Then listen to me."

He stared at her. "I'm listening."

She let the moment of tension pass. Calmer, quiter, she held up one hand flat, showing him only the edge, "You need to be in possession of the full facts, and you need clarity. I can't accept an answer from you until then. I won't."

With narrowed eyes, but gently, without force, he confirmed, "I've made my choice, Lois, and it's not a choice I've made lightly." His arms lifted off his sides, "What do you think this is? A whim?"

"I think that when it comes to me," she shot back, and then stopped.

"When it comes to you, what?"

She blinked. Her voice returned, stronger, slower, restrained- "When it comes to me, you're prepared to take reckless and inadvisable risks."

His hands went to his hips and he had to smile at the richness of the irony. He said, "That's a pretty uncompromising opinion of me. And a pretty high opinion of yourself."

"Am I wrong?"

"What are you so afraid of? We'll jump back, I'll rally a team together; Bruce, the JLA, your father. Everyone. You said preparations are in place. You said there was a plan?"

Her exasperation, bubbling away, finally spilled over, "Plan!" She stabbed a finger outwards, to the sky. "That forcefield that Luthor trapped you inside? The one you were helpless against? He rebuilt it, without the Kryptonite because he _had_ to, because _we __stole_ the original." She threw the hand up, "So he refined the design, improved it, evolved it. Now, it's not some dinky stage effect; it's around the Earth, it's colorless, it's radioactive, and it affects _everyone_. A solid layer of light, fifty miles up, twenty miles thick, enclosing the Earth; what goes in, struggles to get out. It gets stuck; for shooting practice." Bitterly, she went on, "'The World Shield', that's what Luthor calls it. He says it's for protection. The upper wall has proved impenetrable. Beneath the lower wall, there's a no-fly zone- a weapons array is primed and ready to pick off incursions. Only authorized aircraft is permitted. No metahumans, no friendly aliens, no superheroes." Underneath a dark, animated look, her voice had built to a strained climax, "_Especially _no superheroes."

Clark's mind returned to their conversation in the firelight at Bruce's. Quietly, he repeated, "Luthor controls the skies."

With a hold on herself again, she explained, "Our efforts to prevent implementation of the forcefield were unsuccessful. As were our attempts to sabotage it after implementation. Bruce diverted funds into a hypersonic missile program, sent the entire payload up there locked on one target. We thought we might be able to punch a hole through the outer surface."

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"The missiles failed to detonate?"

She grimaced, "They detonated, alright. Right on target, right on cue. Emil and I heard the explosion through three floors and ten inches of reinforced concrete." She regarded him. "The forcefield remained intact. Untouched."

"What about-"

She had read him, "Diana? Wally? J'onn? They've all tried. We've tried everything."

Clark insisted, "There must be something."

She sighed, crooked her elbows, interlocked her splayed fingers and pushed them together. "Six years ago, in his work at the DoD, my father was able to get his hands on excerpts from the file outlining the specs for the original forcefield, the one made of Kryptonite. In the excerpts, there were references to cellular code extraction. It seems that in the minutes Luthor held you captive the forcefield was able to retrieve genetic information;" they shared a dark, loaded look, "it was able to-"

"Steal my DNA."

She winced, and, instead, offered, "To ...parse it. Some of it. Incomplete fragments, but enough." To check his display of concern, she outlined, "When the second forcefield, the 'Shield', turned out to be so resistant, we wondered if, somehow, Luthor had reversed the design. The Kryptonite forcefield was effective against someone from Krypton but useless against anyone else. With the second forcefield, we hoped that the opposite might be true." She paused, "That maybe a Kryptonian, at full speed, could break through, short circuit it."

He had followed her. "Kara?"

Matter-of-factly, Lois nodded. "She tried. She made it to the outer surface. She said it was like hitting a brick wall." Her eyelids half-closed as she cast a gaze down to the floor, "Just like everyone else." Then she sucked in a breath, released it, and her eyes darted back onto his, wary, but interested and bright again, as if some internal threshold had been crossed. "We wondered if the effects of the forcefield had not only been reversed, but were specific. We wondered if the genetic information taken from you had allowed Luthor to tailor the shield, to encode it. That it blocked out everything, with the exception of one weakness, one key."

Clark looked aside, turning over the implications. "I'm the key," he said, moving his focus back to her, "and I'm dead."

"Tossed away, thrown down the well, before he even built the lock."

"You think I can get through."

Her eyes were dancing. But there was no sense of encouragement. She gave him a desperate, sardonic, weary smile, "We think. We estimate. We hypothesize, we assume." Softly, her head turned head side to side, "But we don't know. If we're wrong, the jump was for nothing. Everything was for nothing. If we're wrong, it's a suicide run, and you're dead. Again." Her eyes widened a little, "That's the plan. Sounds good, right?" She made no attempt at disguising the hysterical lilt. She said, "Now, maybe you understand why the other Clarks made the choice that they did."

He had listened. Listened to it all. And he understood exactly. After a short, studied pause, more for her benefit than his, he told her, "It's a chance I'm willing to take."

"Well, I'm not." She made a face like as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

Ignoring the dismissiveness, Clark remained very still. Two low eyebrows drew together. "I don't see that you get a say in this."

Her head quirked in surprise and Lois blinked. "I don't see that _you_ get a say in this."

Undaunted, Clark simply observed, "I'm going back with you. To your world. If that upsets you, you're going to have to deal with that."

Her eyes flashed, "When was the last time anyone told you, 'No'?"

He fired back, "When was the last time anyone told you, 'Yes'?"

She pressed her hands to her face and then they were fluttered in the air. "This is crazy. This is not up for debate."

Clark was astounded. "Then what is this, Lois? Why do you do it?" He raised his arms, an expansive, beseeching, impotent gesture, "What's the point? If this is all for nothing, then what the hell is the point?"

In the seconds that followed, he was rewarded with a uncomprehending, penetrating glare. "To _see __you __again_." Voice breaking, she rasped, "However hollow it is and however empty it is, and however much I tell myself that it isn't, somewhere along the line, it became enough, and that's the point, Clark." She stood before him, hurting, raw, completely revealed. "To know that you're alive and safe and _existing_. Even if it's somewhere else." She gritted her teeth. Softly, she said, "It's enough."

"So, now what? Eight-two-one gets crossed off the list? Skip on over to the next world?"

"We'll jump until we find a world that's... more suitable."

Her words came like a slap in the face. He rocked on his feet, repeated, under his breath, "More suitable?"

"When we can- when it's possible, maybe I can jump back here?"

He was still smarting. "How long will that be? Thirty years, forty years?"

"As long as it takes."

Nodding to himself, he squinted, "That's a lot of other worlds. A lot of other Loises. A lot of other Clarks."

"Maybe next time will be the right one."

He found the idea of her leaving him to just continue on on her way offensive but, in the moment, failed to recognize or articulate the hot grip of jealousy that had taken hold. He tried to make her understand, "Lois." He whispered, "I don't have that luxury."

Thickly, she responded, "You have a privileged life here." Her throat worked. "You could have any woman you wanted."

He glared at her. "It's not enough for me."

She set her bottom jaw, and she squared her shoulders and Clark witnessed a physical effort to pull herself together. She said, "I think you better take me back. I can jump from here but the lab is more convenient." It was below the belt and she must have seen it in his flinch; "Safer."

A tension-filled silence was endured by them both. "I trust your judgment. Over anyone in the world, any world, I trust your judgment. I would do anything you asked of me." His look was inscrutable and unsparing, "But there's something I need to know."

Physically, he hadn't moved, but a distance was being closed and even though he could tell it made her uncomfortable, he was compelled to continue. "Tell me what you want, Lois. Right here, right now, tell me what you want?"

Her eyes closed. "I think it's best if you stay."

"I want to know what you want?"

"I think it's best if you stay."

"That's not what I'm asking."

Her eyes opened. Unshed tears had made them wet along her lashes. "Please don't make me say it again, Clark."

An internal battle was fought and, against his instincts, and through sheer obstinacy, was won. Finally, resigned, he said, "I'll take you back."

A hand was brought to her nose and quickly removed again, and the tears were blinked away. There was a polite, hitched, "Thank you."

"But I want to take you somewhere else, first."

Their eyes met again. They were both so conditioned, so expert, it was impossible to tell what kind of cost had been taken. It was only because he knew her, that he was aware any cost had been taken at all.

He said, "Will you come with me?"

...

On her world his fortress was dark. Here, inside the fortress, it was light. It was a clean, diffuse, ambient light that had no obvious source. They flew slowly, moving downwards between diagonal slopes and layers of clear, strafed rock that illuminated as they were neared, as if welcoming him home, responding to him, to his presence. On her world, his fortress was a desolate, lonely place. He had never taken her there and she had traveled to it only once, with Emil. It had felt like a mausoleum, a tomb where night and day you could wander, and cry, and cut your hands. Without him, it was a husk.

He set them down and they were inside a great chamber, the walls on either side rising up at vertiginous angles to meet at a pinnacle far above their heads. With him, Lois was moved by the magnificence and the majesty that surrounded her. The chamber felt airy, open, alive. With him, the design made sense.

They were standing on the highest platform of a set of gently descending levels that cut into the surface like steps. She was wearing his jacket and she pushed back the sleeve to take his hand as he led them down, guided her towards the entry way of another part of the fortress.

Heavy-hearted but obedient, she followed him through the entry way and into a space that opened up, a second chamber as wide and impressive as the first. When she saw what the chamber housed, Lois gasped. A central structure, an obelisk, about sixty feet high and the breadth and depth of a church steeple, towered up to the ceiling.

The structure was half-lit, a dramatic shaft of white falling on an angle, cutting it in two, transforming it into something hallowed and stark. The light selected points of detail and threw them into relief. Like the fortress, the object was a massed bank of serrated crystal and translucent rock. But it was not entirely organic. There were areas that had been excavated and replaced- an intricate system of mechanical inserts and sheaves of metal and repaneling. If you looked closely, you could see that the object was not one whole piece at all. It had been built and put together in several separate adjuncts and component parts. A technological colossus, not quite man-made, but not totally unearthly either.

The difference between a two-dimensional blueprint on a page and its realized form was not insignificant but Lois had recognized the structure immediately, and awe made her voice breathless. "The time machine."

They stared at it together. "It looks complicated. And it is," the side-glance he gave her was impish and dry. "But it's very easy to use."

They walked up to it, to its base, and stood before a console constructed of long, hollow, transparent tubes. The tubes were of varying lengths and, sheathed by them, were smaller crystalline rods, exquisitely cut and catching the light.

Clark was at her side, just behind her, her shoulder tucked inside his so that when he spoke she could feel his breath on her hair. "Do you see this crystal?"

Her eyes tracked to where he had gestured and she nodded. Of the set of fluted columns and rods ranged on the console, one, the middle one, sat higher than the others.

"The activation mechanism is started when you press it and it locks into place. As the period of time that is reset elapses, the crystal depresses, like a piston, and regenerates power to be used again."

She smiled, released a breath through her nose. The device was so elegant. Somehow a contraption with dials and pressure gauges and levers sticking out would have been more appropriate; "You push a big shiny button to get unlimited do-overs?"

"No one's ever put it that way," she could hear the grin unraveling, "but, yes."

"It's beautiful." She reached out to touch the console.

"Careful."

Her hand retracted, as if from something hot. "I thought you said it didn't work?"

"It didn't. It doesn't. Not really." She noted the hesitation, the solicitude, in his words, "Not the way it was supposed to."

He extended his arm to the console, chose the activation crystal, smoothly pulled it out to show her. He held it lengthways between them, rolling it between each thumb and forefinger. It looked very delicate in his hands. It was not a perfect cylinder, as Lois imagined. It too had sides and grooved edges.

"As soon as it was ready, I tried it out." Clark looked upwards, took in the entire edifice, "I brought it here, assembled it, calibrated it for a test run. I configured time-elapse for twelve hours. It was a little before nine at night in Metropolis, I set it for a little before nine in the morning," a pause, "pressed the button."

She found his eyes. He said, "I don't know what I was expecting. Lightning, a thunderclap? A great biblical rending, the sky splitting in two?" He sighed, "The universe taking note?" She watched an eyebrow flicker, "Nothing happened. Not a thing. I went outside." He pointed with the crystal, "It was late in the year, out here it could be midnight, midday, there's not much difference. I flew south to the city. As I flew, it got brighter. There was rush hour traffic. I grabbed a paper off a stand and there it was, in the Daily Planet, in black and white; the morning edition of the same day."

Her eyes, wide and soft, gleamed, "You did it."

His eyes glimmered anew with the fever and flush of old excitement. "I was ecstatic. I flew straight back, I could hardly wait for the crystal to re-power. When it was ready, I set it again, another trial run- this time for twenty-four hours." The crystal was twirled between his fingers. He stared at it, became subdued. Something behind his eyes had waned away. "But it got light again, just like it had before. It didn't make sense; it was supposed to be nine at night, but there was still rush hour traffic, it was morning. I went to the same stand, checked the paper. The date hadn't changed- it was the same day. I asked the vendor what the time was. He told me; a little before nine."

The middle of her forehead had creased. "Twelve hours again."

"I went back to the fortress, waited, tried it a third time, same thing. A fourth time, same thing. Never making it further than twelve hours back."

Lois was puzzled. "The crystal, the mechanism, was stuck?"

Clark gave a light shake of the head, a shrug. "No. It's a question of power. We experimented endlessly." An open hand moved over the top of the other shards of crystal and the tubes on the console that encased them, "The device runs on a cocktail of compacted chemical compounds, extracted from across the galaxies. The potential supply's limitless, I can synthesize as much as I want, when I want. The quantity's not the problem. Just the quality." He managed a faint, inward-looking smile. He bobbed the activation crystal in his hand before reaching to replace it; "You know I never thought to convert Kryptonite."

Lois swallowed. "Twelve hours?"

"At maximum capacity," he said. "Instead of finding you again, saving you, changing our future, I had just found a way to relive a loop of my past." His gaze fell on hers. It bore an intimacy that made her squirm. "If I want, I have all the time in the world. And nothing to do with it except miss you."

Involuntarily, her eyes closed, and she almost swayed. When she looked again, she was under the same scrutiny and it was as unbearable and terrible as it was thrilling. The instinct to batten down and to suppress was being drawn out of her and she feared for heart.

He was fearless, of course; the blue in his eyes and the look on his face intense, and burning with sincerity, faith, and the unhidden, coruscating, truth. "If it had worked. If I had been able to go back- the Institute, everything; it never would have happened. I would've been back at the Planet, at my desk, living my life, trying to ignore the scent of your perfume and figure out how to tell you that the real reason I was late was not because I couldn't find my keys, without you kicking my ass."

She was teetering on the brink, but she could not allow herself to give in. She pleaded with him, "But it didn't work. And you carried on. And you created a wonderful thing."

"And I'm glad I did. And I am proud. But it was my second choice, Lois. Now I have a second chance." She felt so weak, and he looked so sure. "Ask me what I want."

"What do you want?"

"That life. I want it back. The costume, that S shield underneath my shirt." A slow, crooked smile, "The glasses."

Her head was swimming, it was so hard to think. "You're doing something bigger here."

"The universe seeks balance. Yin and yang; that's what you said. That's what we're doing."

The words electrified her. Inside her heart, there was a quickening of possibility, and she knew he felt it too. She resisted. In a last, heroic, effort, she exhaled a ragged breath and told the ceiling, "I'm not her."

Simply, he said, "I'm not him." His smile melted away. "But please don't expect me to lie and to pretend, and to stand this close to you, and tell you that you don't make me feel the way that I do."

Her eyes closed again. She wanted to hear more. She never wanted him to stop. But she could no longer bear it. She insisted, "This world needs you."

"Maybe I need your world." He sought out her gaze, wouldn't relinquish it. "Maybe I need you."

She shook her head, powerless to stop the sobs breaking up her voice. "I can't lose you again."

He moved closer, touched his left hand to the side of her face and held it there. Warmth flooded through her. He whispered, "You won't. I swear to you, you won't."

She leaned into his palm. Fortified by him, she caught her breath. She said, "Bruce has written a computer program. It runs models- projections, predictions, outcomes. It allows for the input of all kinds of variables and tests the success rate of bringing you back and sending you to disable the forcefield. Bruce says it's extremely accurate." She watched him watch her.

"What do the models predict?"

"Bruce says the percentage risk of failure is very high."

Clark's head cocked slightly to the side, "Diana? What does she say?"

Lois looked grave. "That she would have more confidence if you had been created by the Goddesses. And were a woman."

Clark laughed and Lois laughed too. He was stroking her cheek with his thumb. He brushed away a tear. "Wally?"

"He's adamant he could breach the shield himself if he could get a run up at it."

His eyes danced at her, "The Johns?"

"They're pretty confident that Luthor will be vanquished once Earth can re-establish contact with the other space sectors."

Clark's gaze became serious again. Solemnly, he told her, "We'll go back together. And we'll win."

"How do you know that?"

His eyes darted between hers, fierce and shadowed with concentration. "Because there's something I have to tell you, Lois. Something I've never told you before."

She drew in and let out a deep sigh, and allowed the words to break gently over her.

"Something important. Something I've wanted to say to you since the second you burst into that office and there were stars and hearts, and trumpets sounded, and rockets fired, and the sky lit up and the earth moved," Clark was nodding, "and I knew. And Perry introduced us and you shook my hand, and you told me it was nice to meet me, and you didn't look at me. Once."

She hiccuped a chuckle. Now he brought his right hand up so that he could cup her face. He watched his fingers brushing her hair back. The back of her neck and scalp prickled with pleasure.

With gravity, he said, "We'll win because I'm faster than a speeding bullet. I'm more powerful than a locomotive. I can leap tall buildings in a single bound." Cockily, seriously, he dropped his voice and leaned in to her, "I'm the greatest hero the world has ever known."

She was reduced to cooing.

He moved in closer, "Lois?"

His breath was on the sensitive skin of her lips. "Yes?"

"I'm Superman."

He dipped and she opened her mouth for him, searching for him, and their lips touched. Her hands pushed up over the muscles of his chest, over his shoulders and around his neck so she could fold her arms there and rake her fingers through the back of his hair, and press herself fully against him to deepen the kiss. Desire coarsed through her, she _ached_ for him, and the movement of their lips, hot and yielding, seemed only to increase the need for his touch.

His hands moved down the sides of her body from underneath her jaw to her waist to pull her closer there, and then dragged back up, beneath the jacket and over her back. An incoherent murmur of satisfaction was produced when, without breaking the kiss, he leaned gently to one side, bent his knee, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**-Chapter Five-**

She was aware that she looked fabulous. Tired, but fabulous, because, as they were leaving, she had glimpsed herself in the plate glass of the restaurant. It was not something she could control; they had come straight from dinner in Beijing and changing back into the combat boots and fatigues just for the briefing had seemed overly excitable, or, at least, premature. She would have re-worn the silver number Bruce had provided but that was a few days ago and they had crammed a lot in since then; what was for certain was that they had been unable to find the dress in the fortress but it was definitely on a bedroom floor _somewhere_. So she arrived wearing three inch heels and a new smart black evening dress and she assumed they assumed she had picked out a new outfit especially for the occasion. Sweetly, no one had said anything but as a tableau it must have appeared odd and needlessly glamorous; like an eve-of-battle inspection of the 101st Airborne carried out by Katharine Hepburn.

The focused red dot of a laser pen circled a specific area on the holographic projection that was playing to her right. "At the moment of impact, structural integrity is lost and the entire forcefield is rendered useless." For the purposes of demonstration the projected animation of the Earth faded away and segued into a larger off-white mesosphere in which a small spidery crack appeared, new fissures immediately forming and spreading outwards until it was shattered, like glass. The lights had been lowered for this part and while she talked the undulating flicker and glow from the projection cast mirrorball-like shapes onto the surfaces of the room and created artificial movement on the faces gathered before her.

She had never got this far, to the briefing stage. Had never actually used the briefing cache. To her relief and acute sense of professional pride, it had worked- it was on the floor at her feet now, a tiny plastic compact case emanating a triangle of light, the images it showed were clean and clear. It all seemed to have gone well. Still, she was nervous.

Arranged in two rows of a three and a four, the team sat facing her, attentive, listening, curious. Clark was at the back on his own. Hands in pockets, leaning on a console, not in a chair like the others, and looking unfeasibly and unwittingly handsome in his suit and dark unbuttoned dress shirt. She caught his eye often during the ten-minute talk and every time she did she felt her confidence bolstered by that untroubled air of conviction and the channel of silent support transferred directly to her.

Next to her, Earth, replete with the forcefield mesosphere, vaporized back into being, a beachball-sized semi-opaque image reappearing suspended at her shoulder. All eyes were concentrated on it. J'onn's eyes were nearly concealed, shadowed by the great shape of his brow and making him look even more thoughtful than usual. He spoke first, "It's a ram-raid?"

Lois nodded. "And that's when the JLA," for extra clarity, she paused and placed her palm to her chest before readdressing the animation, "my version, will launch coordinated counter-strikes, here, here, here, and here." As the projection performed a corresponding series of spins and zoomed close-ups, Lois's pen x-marked specific points on the forcefield. She shifted her gaze to Clark, "Superman will deliver the coup de grâce of the rebellion, here." Without looking her closed fist flicked back at the hologram. The hologram changed again and refigured itself as a glittering citadel where the White House should be.

John said, "No civilian involvement?"

"Not directly. Not for the first phase, the initial attack. Bruce's model predicts zero casualties amongst the general population."

Bruce said nothing but from the merest tensing of his bottom lip it was possible to tell he concurred with the forecast and was almost impressed with his other self.

Beside him, Diana looked anxious. "In that case, if the first phase is successful, how do you know you're carrying the will of the people with you?"

"Hearts and minds?" Lois sighed that it was a good question. She shrugged, "It's impossible to know for sure, of course. It has been seven years. But lives were lost all over the world fighting Luthor's takeover, thousands more imprisoned and placed under house arrest- including members of the previous administration and other uncooperative governments. Away from our cell, resistance networks exist; ordinary people involved in anti-Luthor literature, secret meetings, street-level insubordination and civil disobedience, things like that."

At this Diana looked even more concerned- her friends' immediate safety happily out-weighing self-determination every time, "The second phase," she used Lois's word; "'consolidation', it will be dependent on public reaction?"

There was no point in trying to hide the risks, Lois knew that better than anyone. But she could only be honest, "We believe there's a groundswell of popular support for ousting Luthor. We believe there's a desire for the return of the basic right of freedom to humankind, and that, with our help, humankind can deliver it." Simply, she said, "We believe that people want their heroes back."

Arms folded, Wally rocked on his chair, "Damn. I wanna go, too."

"The sudden reappearance of Clark Kent and Superman-" Kara inquired, reasonably, "how will you account for that?"

"Kryptonian technology in the second instance," Lois said. "Luthor's internment camps in the first. Clark Kent has never officially been declared dead, we'll stagger his return by a couple of months so the coincidence is unremarkable."

"What if it doesn't work?" Dick's voice rang quietly but starkly around the room, asking the question that had been avoided. "What if the first phase doesn't work?"

"It'll work." Clark's answer was velvet soft, devoid of bravado or belligerence. It was the first thing he had said since she had started, and Lois locked gazes with him. She searched, again, for the lie, the misgivings, the cracks signaling any self-doubt. They weren't there. Instead, his expression was calm and serious and he exuded belief.

"What if it doesn't?" Bruce's attention traveled from the hologram to settle on Lois.

For a moment she was silent. In a measured tone she offered, "Then we'll fight and fail, and we'll know we tried." She pushed the hand holding the pen into her other palm. "I wish I could say something else."

The group greeted this news with the stoney-faced reaction of those well-versed in and used to danger and sacrifice and aiming for victory within the slimmest possible terms. Although far from happy, Lois could detect a jaw-clenched appreciation that the hard truth had been laid out, shorn of false comfort or reassurance, and by a fellow warrior. Clark pushed himself off the console to join her.

"Of course," J'onn added obligingly, noticing Clark slipping his fingers through Lois's, "the argument's academic, since, regardless of circumstance, Clark decided he would return to World Zero the second he knew his help was needed."

Stifling a smile Lois squeezed his hand and Clark was left to eye-blink away this unsolicited but nevertheless faithful cross-sectioning of his most private motivations while the others could get on with the business of being reminded, not for the first time, how immensely satisfying it sometimes was to have one's deepest but unaired suspicions confirmed by a telepath.

Bruce sniffed. The thumbs of his clasped hands lifted, "Well. In view of the fact that we've all just sat here and listened to how we have," he flicked his wrist to check his watch, "approximately thirty-six hours before the best and brightest of all of us is leaving our side, probably and most likely, forever, I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say," he released another short breath, fixed Clark and Lois with a solemn stare, "good luck, and is there any way we can help before you go?"

Lois glanced at her feet, experiencing as a physical sensation the wave of unanimous support Bruce had articulated and she was humbled and slightly undone by it. The lights in the Batcave began to flicker back on. The low mumblings of broad agreement and the sound of chairs scraping back intermingled with well-wishing as the group prepared to disperse, either to attend to normal duties or head for the elevator where Alfred had appeared with a tea-tray of hot drinks and homemade refreshments.

Diana and Bruce stayed behind and Lois thanked them and admitted that any ideas, or technologies, or advice she could pass on to her side would be welcomed. Bruce told her he'd have something ready for them.

Lois nodded. "There's also the public announcement to organize."

Bruce stuck his hands in his pockets, his gaze darting from Lois to Clark, "How do you want to handle that?"

Unruffled, Clark said, "I'm going to notify the United Nations and hold a simulcast; tv, internet and radio, on all the major networks."

"A press conference?"

"No," Clark told Diana.

Lois confirmed, "Just a speech."

Bruce regarded them again. "People will have questions."

Without looking at each other they nodded in agreement. Softly, Clark said, "We know."

Now Diana turned circumspect as they came under her scrutiny, "Are you going to tell the truth?"

"Yes-" Clark allowed, simply.

With her hands open Lois stressed, "for now, everyone can sit tight-"

Clark finished, "we'll tie up the loose ends."

Lois and Clark nodded, and Bruce and Diana nodded back, and to Diana there seemed little point, and certainly no fun, in continuing to pretend that no one had noticed the way the other couple gazed at each other, or were so at ease with each other, holding hands and standing close and, now, finishing each other's sentences. All in such marked and telltale contrast to the nerves and nervousness of the previous evening. She teased, "Maybe you should get some rest?"

"And a shave," Bruce advised Clark, reading Diana's mind, joining in, and prompting Clark to run a hand over his face. "Must have been some party over there, last night."

Finishing with a calculatedly bright flourish Diana added, "You two look as though you haven't slept in a week!"

Flushed cheeks from Lois and Clark's on-the-spot shoe shuffle had them both appearing more guilty than either Bruce or Diana felt a night shared between two consenting adults warranted. Until Bruce twigged first. One eyebrow took off, immediately, towards his hairline; "I take it you gave Lois a practical demonstration of the time machine?"

Lois didn't quite meet Clark's eye. "Once or twice."

...

Later that morning, having updated Mr Kent's diary, proof-read two dozen finance application documents for his approval, filed the day's first batch of invoices, and signed for three complimentary crates of organically produced mung beans which were currently stacked as a sort of avant-garde art installation in one corner, Marie Manguel was interrupted in the middle of sorting the mail when the door to her left was opened and she was asked by her boss to step inside his office.

She was extremely proficient at maintaining an outward appearance of unflustered poise when submitted to these kinds of requests from Mr Kent. Only she knew the truth; that despite working together for years, and since the beginning, simply being in a room with him was enough to set her on edge and an extraordinary amount of self-control was required during any order of interaction.

And it was not just that he was kind and held doors open, or that he really listened when you had something to say or meant it when he asked after your family. It was not even that he was intimidatingly smart or so outrageously good-looking that it was hard not to find yourself mesmerized and staring. Although all those things were true.

She had never known him before, of course. But, even after all this time, she was aware of a distance being strictly kept, between him and everybody else. A sense of being allowed so far, and no further. This in itself was not a frustration to her, she accepted it, but it meant that her everyday dealings with him, no matter how banal, remained brief and at surface-level and therefore fraught with a rawness and a newness which threatened her capacity to do a good job. And doing a good job, above all else, was what mattered to her.

She alone knew the long hours he spent at his desk filling a day with meetings and speech re-writes and phone conversations and split screen video links. When it got dark outside and the meetings closed and the conferences ended and everybody went home, she alone knew that a mask was removed- but only so he could begin again, ready, for the next time. The Institute had saved him, and she took great pride in it. She had never, wouldn't ever, let it down.

The letter opener and the half-open envelope were replaced gently onto the desk and she left her chair and until she had walked past him she didn't take her eyes off his face. Something had changed there. He closed the door behind her and she felt a growing confidence that it was not her imagination; his entire manner was different. Less studied, somehow. Then he gestured behind her, to his couch, and she turned and there was a lady. The lady rose to her feet, stretched out a hand, introduced herself and Marie understood. Before Mr Kent could say anything more, Marie had clutched the hand between both of hers and offered up a tearful rush of divine thanks.

...

Although only Europe and South America were still within official office hours, all the bureaus were contacted at once. One by one, wide-eyed, sleepy-eyed, from London, São Paulo, Johannesburg, McMurdo, Tokyo, and Sydney, the aides were brought by Clark to collect outside his office. When Clark was ready all seven were invited in together. Having processed the bodyshock of meeting Lois Lane and being told everything, Clark took enormous pleasure in introducing them to the new CEO of the Lois Lane Institute and more pride in the spontaneous round of applause that broke out amongst the group- and there, surrounded at its center, emotional, elated; Miss Manguel.

...

They waited until it began to get dark before they went. She didn't want to lay flowers and he didn't either so they went straight there. Lit by the soft lights they held hands in the dusk, walked along the path, up until they came to the place that was his. He held back then, lowered himself to his seat as she went forward.

'LOIS JOANNE LANE' in Roman script that she crouched to trace with her fingers. To walk on your own grave; she had braced herself for an impact, a Dickensian moment of bloodcurdling epiphany or morbid self-reflection. But there was none. This place was peaceful, and beautiful, and she stood before it, moved. They said goodbye.

...

Above them the great globe whirred sonorously within its fittings. Left and right, they scanned the horizon, the panorama of Metropolis bright and blinking against a clear midnight-blue sky. The older, thicker, more round-shouldered of the two men hunched his jacket collar and pulled it tighter to his neck. Typically, despite the practice, they only noticed his arrival when Clark strode out of the shadows to greet them.

Perry shook his hand first. "This better be good, Kent. My office has the twin benefits of great city views _and_ underfloor heating."

Clark was grinning. "Sorry, Perry. I just wanted a little privacy."

Jimmy looked worried, his cell was pulled back out of his pocket. "Your message sounded urgent?"

Instead of answering right away, Clark glanced out across the city as if searching for something. Carefully, he said, "I'm going to need you to write a story. A story about me. It's an important story, the most important one you'll ever publish." His eyes, alive with the possibility of the moment, relishing it, returned to dart back-and-forth between them. "And that's why you have to write it."

"Why can't you?"

Perry waited. Clark said, "Because I'm not going to be here."

Below a pair of low heavy eyebrows old eyes, eyes that had seen everything, considered Clark. "This isn't about another 'Save the rainforests' campaign by the Institute, is it?"

With a twitchy, graceful smile, Clark looked down at the floor. "No." He opened his shoulder so that they could see. Behind him a figure cloaked by silhouette moved one step forward into the light.

A harsh, "Great Caesar's ghost," was snatched between Perry's lips and he felt his chest constrict.

The apparition, tall and chic in a trenchcoat, unfathomably unchanged and wondrous, and now obscured by tears, said, "Hey Jimmy." Its voice stumbled and broke, "Hi Chief."

He hadn't run for years, but Perry White did then, a sprinter out of a starting block and Lois was clutched and enfolded into the arms of the people who had missed her the most.

...

Like a child's drawing of a sunbeam with the marbled rostrum at its center, the banked aisles and rows of the General Assembly Hall stretched out in gradiated lines in front of him. Every seat was taken, every available space filled; dignitaries, diplomats, heads of state, the press corps, translators, tour guides- crammed together in the auditorium, in the media booths, pressed up against the glass windows of the public gallery.

Two giant screens high behind each shoulder and between them, him, at the lectern, and a prickling, pervading, electrified silence focused entirely on his face and his words until he uttered a final understated thanks and left the rostrum. The hall erupted, a flash-photographed clamor of thunderous applause and uproarious acclaim that seemed to carry him on its sonic energy.

The sound funneled through the wings and followed him into a small anteroom where she was waiting. They walked straight into each other's arms and she took his face in her hands and kissed him. Dressed in all-black, back in her uniform, it was like being met after a particularly taxing campaign speech by a ninja-First Lady. Which in a way, he supposed, was exactly what she was. Exhilarated, he rested his forehead against hers and thought, I could get used to this. "How'd I do?"

She lent away to stare at him, looking a little lost for words. Her head shook, "You were brilliant." One eyebrow quirked, "I think there're a lot of lumps in throats, back there."

"I locked eyes with the President and there was definitely a man tear." Clark let go so he could find her hands. He thumbed across her fingers, confiding, "I thought I was going to go myself."

The knowing amusement in her gaze told him she didn't believe it for a second. "I guess you're a real pro at these kind of things these days?"

He gave a quiet, self-deprecating scoff, before eyeing himself up and down. "Not like this."

Lois squared up and held a deeply drawn breath before releasing it. "How did it feel?" With her hands she began to smooth the fabric against the muscles of his chest. Her eyes followed the movement of her fingertips, and he watched her concentrating, weighing him up with the expert-eye of a connoisseur.

"Good." Bashful, he reconsidered to admit, "Better than good, actually." His smile was small, a little unsure, "How did it look?"

A wide delighted grin broke out and her eyes shone at him. Nodding, thickly, she said, "Pretty great."

He placed his hand to her cheek and they leaned to kiss each other again, a sweet, slow kiss that began to deepen with every touch of the lips.

The room had a second doorway, a fire exit that was now opened and within which an Institute aide had obediently appeared. The aide put his fist to his mouth and coughed but it was not until he cleared his throat with a full-on 'A-hem' that Lois and Clark could bring themselves to be interrupted. Heads still touched together they both twisted to look in the aide's direction. Clark was half-delighted, half-chastened to discover the aide was from the Sydney bureau. Off to one side, diligent and polite, and forever having to tie himself in knots not to mete out the justified exasperation he must have felt with Clark, Clark hoped the young man would have better luck, and enjoy a greater degree of professionalism, in dealing with his new boss now that he had been promoted as Miss Manguel's number two.

With a fingertip pressed to an earpiece, the aide said, "We have the roof clear for you, Sir."

They both dipped their heads in appreciation. Softly, Lois said, "Thank you, Owen."

Clark sighed, re-linked his hands with hers. "Everyone?"

"They're ready," she told him. "They're waiting for us."

Exiting through the fire escape and along a narrow access corridor, they made their way up several flights of stairs to the top of the United Nations building. As Clark led them through the door and out into the evening air, Lois slowed her step.

"Clark, wait."

Clark glanced down behind him to where she was tugging on his hand.

They stopped and she dropped his hand completely. As if she were unable to entirely meet his eye she gazed out before coming back to look at him. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

Playfully, he said, "I just made my weepy goodbyes to a planet of seven billion people, Lois. I don't think now's the time for cold feet."

She smiled but winced and it was because he knew she wanted to hear him say the true thing, not the right thing. Her eyes closed. "I mean it."

He moved in closer so she could see the truth. The blue of his eyes reflected, intense and resolute, as they caught the lights of the city. "So do I."

"Your life will change so much. Back to hiding, hiding who you are, being Superman in secret." An eyebrow raised and she half-turned and held her hand, briefly, back towards the exit; "No staff, no people holding doors open for you. No VIP treatment, or privileged lifestyle. You're giving up all of that. Going back to just Clark." A faint, crooked smile flirted with her lips, "And me."

Clark didn't smile back. "That is a privileged lifestyle."

Her eyelids fluttered, "I just." Again, she looked away and back, lifted and dropped her shoulders. "If you changed your mind. It would be okay. If you want to stay." She nodded at him, "It's okay."

The determination in her face made him uncomfortable. "Lois-"

"No, Clark. Please," she insisted, quickly. Her hands spread open in a dampening down gesture and her lips touched lightly together while she found the right words, but, with her sober expression, and her dark eyes fixing his, all Clark could think was how obliviously attractive she was when she was being this grave. She said, "I don't want you to feel beholden."

His eyebrows raised in surprise. Amused by the word, and by her, he repeated it with relish. "Beholden?"

Lois flinched away. "Just because we... Just because..." A frustrated swaying of one shoulder was transferred into a nervous jiggle of her leg. Eyes that had been scrunched tight opened as Lois dredged up; "You don't owe me anything."

The thought having not crossed his mind, Clark's face turned from blank to troubled.

"If I went back without you, I could handle it." There was a stoic rolling of her lips, a gesture Clark took as aiming toward reassuring. "It would be hard, but I promise I could handle it."

Standing on the roof, alone, they looked at each other. She meant it, Clark thought. Or she was trying her very best to mean it, and the scary part was that she was probably right. He shook his head and simply shrugged, "I couldn't." He sighed, "Lois," and moved in to pick up her hands, entwine his fingers with hers. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear this morning," his lips twitched, a slow-burning smile beginning to form there, "or last night, or the night before that, or the night before that." She was still frowning but he'd got her to smile too, at least. He brought her right hand to his chest and placed it there, flat, covering it with his own hands against his heart; "This doesn't belong to me. It belongs to you."

She let her eyes drop to where their hands were. He could feel her caressing the material underneath. He watched something impish enter her expression, warming it, "The suit?"

His withering look was delivered with eyeroll implied. "The everything. I come in kind of a package deal."

"Does that include the spit curl?" Their eyes met.

Clark frowned and correctly and officiously informed her, "The spit curl's nonnegotiable, obviously." It provoked a wonderful, hard-won grin. Still holding her hand to him, he explained, "Wherever you are, that's where I need to be. Otherwise a part of me is missing." He gave a small shrug, "The question is can you handle that?"

"Yeah, I think I can," she breathed, nodding. "I just needed to say it."

"You're an amazing woman," he said, lifting up her other hand and pulling her closer. "Infuriating and amazing." She chuckled, touched the top of his knuckles with the tip of her nose. "And I think you're the most courageous person I ever met."

She lifted her chin to meet his gaze and sparkled, "Turns out that's a defining trait."

In the cool of the evening air, they sobered. "I love you."

"I love you, too." The widest grin dimpled her cheeks, creasing her eyes; "Turns out _that's_ a defining trait."

He nodded back and they said nothing, enjoying the headiness of the moment, before Clark dropped his voice and squinted, "I hope, Miss Lane; universe-hopper, alternate-reality adventurer, international woman of mystery," his hands slid off hers, trailed down the outside of her forearms and settled at her waist, on her belt, where his fingers fidgeted and hooked inside the strap, "that this isn't you making your timely excuses now that you've had your way with me?"

She circled her arms loosely and proprietorially around his neck, "You found me out. I did all this just to see you naked."

He told her lips, "It was worth it." And then he kissed her.

...

For the second time in two days, and only the second time in its history, the basement floor of the WayneTech building in Metropolis had been cleared of all high level security and technical personnel.

In the abandoned lab, people were stood together in little clutches, talking, commiserating, dispensing sturdy shoulder-gripped thumb massages while Lois and Clark worked the room, saying goodbye.

First in line were John and J'onn with warm handshakes for Clark and a couple of bear hugs for Lois. The boys were next, Wally and Dick's red-eyed but brave-faced backslapping of Clark giving way a little afterwards until Kara, standing between them, sighed and wrapped her arms around their necks and pulled them both in for a cuddle.

When it was his turn, Perry had difficulty letting Lois out of his grasp and he kissed her hard against the sweep of hair across her forehead. Sternly he instructed Clark to take care of her and Clark promised him that he would.

They were interrupted by Jimmy, clearing his throat to call, "Hey, guys. Say 'Fromage'."

At the unexpected flash of bright light Lois started and cringed and, despite her tears, she managed a cross, "Little warning, Olsen!" that warmed Jimmy's heart. Then Jimmy stopped. Taken by an idea he scrambled to extricate the 35mm film from his Nikon, rummaged for a new canister in an inside pocket, loaded the new film and removed the strap from around his neck to press the Nikon into Lois's grip.

Clark said, "What's this?"

Lois looked up, face open, eyes wide as if she had just been presented with the photographer's firstborn. "Jimmy, it's your camera?"

Jimmy pushed the camera back into her hands. "No, it's not. It's yours, now. Take some pictures. Good ones." He swallowed. "Maybe one day you can show them to me."

Whatever she was going to say was stopped at source and a long imploring look was held. For once, ambiguity was welcomed as a friend, and this was not lost on anyone. Lois nodded- "Maybe."

Finally Lois and Clark turned to Bruce and Diana. On the floor between them was a substantial pile of extra luggage- a large, bulky, canvas gym bag and two gleaming attaché cases, standing ready. The equipment was manoeuvred around so that Diana could hold Lois and Clark close and Bruce could kiss Lois. An awkwardly offered handshake between Bruce and Clark was observed until Clark ran out of patience and pulled Bruce in for a manly farewell embrace.

They backed off to stand apart so that Bruce could grill them with a last, quick run-through, "Okay listen, you've got the new armor vests; triple-weaved, nano-tube fiber, fire-insulated, bulletproof?"

Diana rolled her eyes. Like a young couple about to head off on vacation, humoring the overprotective in-law, Lois and Clark bowed their heads gracefully, "Yes."

"The hi-vo Bat tasers?"

"Yes."

"Smoke grenades?"

"Yes."

"The laser shooters?"

"Yes."

"Now, with the shooters, remember; it's a plasma charge and they're prototypes and therefore it's _essential_-"

Having heard enough, Diana exclaimed, "Bruce!"

Without losing his concentration, Bruce continued, "to keep pumping the trigger with the first round; sometimes, the mechanism sticks."

"They'll take care of it."

Bruce raised an acknowledging hand to Diana but he didn't remove his eyes from Lois and Clark, "It's just important not to panic."

"They know what they're doing."

"There's a difference between knowing what you're doing," Bruce's hand crunched into a fist, "and achieving resounding success, Diana."

"That's why the Joker's still running around Gotham, I suppose."

"He's not in the White House, is he?" The fist was turned into an open palm again, "No offense, Clark."

Affably, Clark shrugged that there was none. He shared a look with Lois, "I guess we'll leave you guys to it."

While Clark bent to shoulder the gym bag, Lois programmed the wristband, wondering, "They're exactly the same on my side." They each reached to pick up one of the attaché cases, "It must work," she mused. "On my side their marriage is solid, too."

A gasped "-What?" "-What?" was heard before the room was whitewashed by a pure saturating light.

At their sides, Lois's hand slipped easily into Clark's. Their fingers found all the right gaps and locked. In the moment before they were gone, she felt the rub of his thumb over the knuckle of hers and then a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

The light intensified creating a dancing corona effect around the edge of their bodies until, in an explosion of light, they were obliterated entirely.

The hollow muffled sound of air being expelled, of a candle flame being extinguished, echoed into the silence. The sound issued away and the room was normal again.

...

**World Eight-two-one. The present day.**

He blinked. "And that was the last I ever saw of them." Pale evening sunshine streamed in at the window and cast shadows onto the wall of the apartment. More servings of coffee and some sandwiches for a snack had been pushed back on the table to make way for a fifty-year old edition of the Daily Planet. Jimmy Olsen removed his glasses to hold them and pivot them idly by the stuck-up arm of one frame. The thick bold type of the headline read SUPERMAN RETURNS. "A fairy tale." Jimmy hooked the glasses back on, raised his gaze to his guests. "That's as much as I know." He witnessed another loaded stare between boy and girl. This time it seemed to settle something.

The girl turned to Jimmy, her expression set. "They kept trying to perfect the return matrix. Full-proof it for double jumping."

Between thumb and middle finger, the boy angled his watch. "It took a while."

The room was quiet. Somewhere outside, in the street, maybe over in the park, a dog barked. Jimmy inhaled a breath. "Who are you?"

The girl leaned over to the floor and hoicked up her bag. Resting it in the groove of her lap she flipped open the front flap and pulled out an object that had been swaddled in an expensive-looking cashmere scarf. When the material was peeled away it revealed an old-style Nikon F-mount camera, complete with detachable zoom lens, its original strap wound round neatly. The girl placed the camera on the table. Her hands went back to the bag and she produced a thick leather-covered photograph album. She stretched over and the photo album was carefully lowered and left, provocatively, on the paper in front of Jimmy.

He could hear the too-loud draw and rasp of his own unsteady breathing in his ears. Reaching forward he picked up the album in both hands and brought it to him to rest on his knees. As if it were a relic, ancient and sacred, he allowed his thumbs and fingertips to run up its spine and covers.

"When the lab told them everything was ready, they wanted to come themselves." The girl stopped. "But my dad..."

"My mom," the boy finished.

"Our parents." A tentative pulling of the lips made at forming the start of a smile, "they don't like it. I guess they're kind of like your wife."

The boy confirmed, "They worry. They think, at their age they should know better."

His hands were trembling. Jimmy opened the album.

"So Grandpa and Grandma swore to them _they_ wouldn't jump."

Along the top left-hand corner of the inside cover, a note, in Lois's handwriting, said, 'For James.' "But conveniently mentioned nothing about sending their grandkids?" Jimmy glanced up and a moment of magic occurred then. Five like-minded souls, joined across the void, thick in the aiding and abetting derring-do of it all. In the faces of these children, Jimmy could see them both. Their loyalty, bravery, mischief.

Reverently feeling the corners of each page, barely touching them as he turned them, Jimmy worked through the album, traveling through history, observing the richness of a life unfold. A story, a narrative, just like his own collection, his own mantelpiece; pictures of a church, a wedding, babies, toddlers, a little boy and a little girl standing proud next to a sandcastle with their front teeth missing. A high school ball game. Graduation. Leaving for college. More weddings and babies. He turned the pages. Except it wasn't his story. There was another Perry, another Planet. Another him. Hot tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Swallowing the lump away, Jimmy nodded, "That sounds like them."

The boy's head lifted to regard the window and the world beyond, "They think Gramps has taken us into the city to see the bugs exhibition."

"They did it." Jimmy closed the book, wiped his face. "Luthor, they beat him?"

The children, their grandchildren, nodded unguardedly, cheerfully. It was lovely.

Jimmy's eyes creased at the corners. In a tender voice, he asked, "And they're happy?"

"Happy?" The girl loudly retorted, like this was something of an understatement. "Disgustingly. They kiss each other. All the time."

"On the lips," the boy's grossed-out disapproval was obvious both in expression and tone.

With narrowed eyes, the girl confided, "And they're _old_."

Jimmy laughed. Dabbing his eyes with the back of his hand it was all he could manage. He swiped his palms down his thighs, "There's so much I'd like to tell them. There's so much they should know."

The boy's wrist began bleeping. Pincering the watchface with his fingers, he silenced it.

"You have to go?"

The boy nodded, "They'll be worried."

The children packed away the touchtablets, stood and politely waited, and followed Jimmy down the hall back to the door.

After opening the door for them Jimmy huffed and held up a hand. "Please. Wait."

The children watched him shuffle away into the living room again, heard him moving around the room, obviously searching for something. When he returned the camera was back in his hands. With a speed and a deftness that impressed them, Jimmy locked a new roll of film into the camera and handed it back into the girl's hands.

The children looked at him.

"Tell them- tell them everything worked out here. It all worked out great. Everything the Institute started. It carries on, still." Something else kicked in then, an instinct that overrode his emotion, made him smile, and those old eyes gleam. "And tell them, for next time, they'll get better depth of field if they use the aperture settings and they'll avoid lens flare if they're careful of the angle of the light." Jimmy grinned. "But tell them I said they were good."


End file.
